


Hello, Hamish

by Norma_de_Plume



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John Watson, Captain John Watson, Confused John, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jealous Sherlock, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possessive Sherlock, Pre-Reichenbach, Sarah Ships It, Scheming Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Virgin Sherlock, mild knife violence, will he or won't he?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 11:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 23,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12189072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norma_de_Plume/pseuds/Norma_de_Plume
Summary: John and Sherlock never imagined that their relationship could ever be more than flatmates and best friends. Hoped, perhaps...but... *ahem*Could one person change that? What if someone else had their eye on Dr. Watson?What if it wasn't a woman?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TheColdEastWind bequeathed me a lovely idea. I thank them for entrusting me with it and for nudging me along with my first multi-chapter work! I dedicate this to you. 
> 
> The prompt: 
> 
> “There was a new nurse at St. Bart's and no one was more charmed then John. Perhaps a date was in order? (Not a crossover fic - but for visual reference, the character of Hamish will be played by Eliot Waugh from "The Magicians.") 
> 
> John was in his second best pair of shoes which could only mean one thing - Date night. But something was different. John was fidgety, almost nervous. But why? John was charming and cool around woman, making them smile and laugh easily. Why would he seem so off his game... Unless the players had changed. But no! He wouldn't? Or would he? 
> 
> Sherlock had briefly believed that John was attracted to him, but had told himself that he was merely projecting his own desires on to John, and had put that thought away somewhere. Oh, now he had to run through his mind palace to find the exact data. Licking his lips, coy half smile, slightly fidgety - that was John the night he had asked Sherlock out, because that's what it had been and stupid, stupid Sherlock had just realized it two years later."
> 
> \-----
> 
> This story takes place after the events at Baskerville - strictly pre-Fall stuff. I'm a sucker for that relatively simpler time for our boys.
> 
> Not beta read or Britpicked.

John headed into the clinic that morning just as he had countless mornings before. He endured the usual hustle and bustle in the Tube, a bit of spilled coffee on his coat as he plodded his way up the stairs, and then the short walk up to the clinic doors. There was a bit more chaos than the norm at the front waiting area today as he breezed by, but it was rather trial by fire here for new front desk personnel. Kill or be killed, keep order with the waiting queue, or be trampled by the masses. John somewhat uncharitably reflected that he was glad he got the crowd one at a time, in a timely fashion, instead of the lemming-like onslaught in which they arrived.

 

John happened upon Sarah as he was hanging his coat up in the kitchen.

 

“Good morning, John,” she blandly remarked, sipping a weak cup of tea and finishing up a muffin.

 

“'Morning, Sarah,” he carefully returned. Their relationship had been a tad strained after the events of their ill-fated date a while back. Almost getting a girl run through with a Chinese death escape device wasn't exactly the way to encourage future romantic endeavours. Well, at least not for _most_ people, he wryly thought to himself, trying not to think about Sherlock dashing to his, erm, he and _Sarah's_ rescue.

 

Cheekbones and collars, stroppiness and heads in the freezer and random explosions. Not _really_ such a grand combination, if he was honest. John found himself really not minding too much if he could have Sherlock's intensity and focus on him like that again.

 

_Who craves attention more, really? Him or me? Dammit, I just want him to respect the all shit I do for him, to NOTICE and maybe appreciate it a little. To care._

 

John's brain drifted to mingle with memories of Sherlock actually acknowledging him. That first night - shooting the cabbie and saving him certainly got his attention. The way the detective had looked at him during their run-in with Moriarty at the pool. Desperate and afraid - as if John really meant something to him….

 

_Bollocks._

 

He needed to stop doing that - making himself second guess the nature of his relationship with Sherlock. There wasn't anything there like that. Hadn't he told everyone within earshot, again and again, that he wasn't gay? That they weren't a couple? Everyone seemed to assume along those lines. Sherlock never seemed to correct anyone on that assumption, oddly enough. He would correct everyone on any other bloody thing, but not that. Why the hell not?

 

_You didn't need that in your head today. Enough._

 

Sarah, to her credit, hadn't ostracized him completely, but that spark was definitely gone that she may have had for him. They had worked back up to congenial colleagues who could occasionally share a joke, a gentle smile, and a passive aggressive potshot at each other once in awhile.

 

“We finally have a replacement for Nurse Josephine in this morning,” Sarah casually remarked as she tidied up her cup and proceeded to get up to begin her shift. “I'll introduce you later on. Seems to be quite popular with the natives already.” She suggestively waggled her eyebrows at him as she slid by. “Catch you later, John.”

 

Sarah shut the door behind her as she headed out. Thank God. They had been a nurse short since Josie went on maternity leave. Being a body down, John always seemed to be the one who jumped in to help everyone else at the expense of exhausting himself. He did rather like those evenings after a day like that though. It was as if Sherlock could deduce the heavier tread of his tired footsteps on the steps and would sometimes be in the kitchen, getting the kettle started for him. On the rare occasion, he might even have a cup of tea already waiting. He smiled fondly at that. Then of course, he'd be rudely snapped back to reality by the discovery of a pig carcass thawing in the bathtub or fingernails macerating in a mysteriously oozy suspension in their only measuring cup in the kitchen. Ruefully, John took a deep breath and vowed not to think about Sherlock at ALL today. Just do his job.

 

After donning his white doctor's coat, John walked into the supply room, intending to grab a few of the new nicer patient drapes before they all got picked over. He quickly discovered he wasn't the only one in the cramped room.

 

_There we go - speak of the very devil._

 

A tall, dark curly haired man in blue scrubs had his back to the door, clipboard in hand, bent over, appearing to be taking an inventory of the gauzes and packs. John paused to allow the lizard part of his brain to roguishly admire the plush backside that was so temptingly poised in his direction. Mentally, he shook his head sharply.

 

_What the hell, Watson?? That is seriously off limits thinking_!

 

Didn't he JUST tell himself he wasn't going to think about Sherlock today? And what the hell was the bastard doing here anyway, kitted up in medical gear and actually looking  efficient and useful?

 

“Sherlock, you complete and utter prat! Just because you have an official looking clipboard in your hand and are wearing doctors togs, does not mean you can waltz in here and take advantage of the new staff that haven't been warned about you! C'mon. Out. Why the hell are you here anyway? I'm WORKING.”

 

John reached out to spin the infuriating interloper around by the shoulder, grabbed his shirt by the front to shake him a bit before he booted him out. The long body straightened suddenly and pivoted right into John's chest, only stopped by John's grip on the vee of the scrub top. John huffed out an impatient breath of frustration and looked up. Pale skin, sinfully long neck, yeah, yeah. Then looked up some more.

 

_What the hell._

 

He was ratcheting his neck back more than he seemed to recall usually having to. Sherlock hadn't grown, had he? Dear God, what a wretched thought - like the taller man needed more ammunition to loom menacingly over John's smaller body. His gaze finally reached Sherlock's dark brown eyes and stopped.

 

_Brown????_

 

John released his grip on Not Sherlock instantly as if he was that broken curling iron that Harry left in the bathroom one time when they were kids. He still had a bit of a scar on his palm as a reminder and strangely enough, right now, it burned. They hovered there for a moment, each deep into the other's personal space, chest to almost chest. The stranger blinked in a stunned manner and then his face morphed into a beautiful smile. His lashes coyly dropped and then raised again, half lidded to meet John's gobsmacked look of stupefaction.

 

Without moving away from John, the noticeably taller man opened his full, rosy mouth (not that John was staring, he just HAPPENED to be looking, just there), and cocked his head at John.

 

“You must be Dr. Watson,” Not Sherlock drawled.

 

American. Sideburned. Dark curls flopping artfully over one eye. A bit on the thin side. Had it been a difficult for a male nurse to find a post? And a handsome one at that? Did that make office politics a bit more strained for him? John willed Deduction Mode Sherlock out of his head forcibly.

 

“Yes, um, yes. John Watson.” He stumbled back a bit breathlessly and automatically stuck out his hand to shake the long fingered hand that was placed firmly into his grasp.

 

Long, taller Not Sherlock let his mouth quirk up appraisingly to one side. His rich brown eyes travelled in a leisurely fashion down to John's sturdy brogues then up again, just as slowly to meet John's dark blue ones.

 

“I'm your replacement nurse. Hamish Waugh.It’s a genuine pleasure to meet you. Believe me.” With that almost insolent remark, he winked.

 

_Damn. Was he just checking me out?_

 

Why did he just get a flash of Sherlock doing exactly that as he stalked out of the room at Bart's in search of his riding crop? John's brain was in danger of system shutdown.

 

“H-hamish, huh? Um, I'm a Hamish too. Family name,” the doctor stammered out a little too helpfully and ran a hand quickly through the close-cropped hair at the nape of his neck.

 

“Yeah, Same here. I'm staying with some distant relatives while I'm here. Work study for finishing my nurse anesthetists training. People usually call me Eliot - it's my middle name. Hamish is not really a popular or a well known name in the States, though here, folks don't blink an eye at it.”  He turned that chocolatey gaze back to John and for the love of God, winked _again._

 

John HAD to get out. He made a hasty retreat after a rather contrived glance to his watch and a “Oh, I'm late for my first patient, GottaGoBye.” As soon as he rounded the corner away from the supply room, he slumped his back against the cold walls of the hallway and blew out a shaky breath.

 

_What the HELL had all of that been about?_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I attempted to include a picture of "Not Sherlock", but alas, technology refused to cooperate fully. Forgive me. A quick Google search of "Eliot Waugh" can save the day. It's worth the look to see how John got his wires crossed. Rrroww...


	2. Chapter 2

 

Sherlock found himself in a state he rarely ever experienced. Hesitant confusion. He had been finishing up his analysis of a pair of orchid shears and the male and monoecious yews genus’ ability to release a cytotoxic pollen, which can cause headaches, lethargy, aching joints, itching, skin rashes, and most damning - as a trigger for asthma. The victim, one Reginald White, who was prone to severe asthma attacks, had succumbed to one that took not only his breath, but his life.

 

The dead man's wife, Imogene, who seemed to have a great deal going for her now that the man's rather sizable life insurance policy would have to pay up, was adamant she knew nothing about what happened on the fateful night. She had not even been home for a week before her husband had his fatal attack. The insurance company still wanted to make sure and enlisted the Met, and ergo, Sherlock, to investigate.

 

“She's lying, Sherlock. I can feel it,” John had whispered into the taller man's ear, his voice sharp with passionate agitation.

 

Sherlock's eyes closed of their own volition and a tiny shiver chased it's way down his spine. John's breath in his ear and his strong emotion had started a chain reaction of response that he was nearly helpless to slow its reckless course through his body. John had a tendency of doing that to him at quite random and infuriating intervals. Sherlock took a deep breath and as haughtily as he could muster, rolled a snarky “Obviously,” from his lips.

 

Crisis narrowly avoided.

 

Upon searching the Mr. White's bedroom, Sherlock had discovered the man was a collector of vintage scientific laboratory equipment and was an obsessively clean germaphobe. The first he could understand. The second is what could have possibly  killed him. While Sherlock was caught up in a moment of covetousness at the expanse of glittery glassware, John had wandered over to the bedside table where vase of garden flowers was arranged prettily. The doctor absently swiped at the table which was covered in a fine layer of dropped pollen. Sherlock, drawn to the sudden movement, saw the evidence of a previous hand through the messy yellow particles on the dark table, the contents of the vase itself, and immediately pounced on John, ripping his shirt up to cover his nose.

 

“John,” his low rumbling baritone implored, as he held the shirt collar a bit more fiercely over the blonde man's nose and mouth. “Do not move your hands anywhere near your face. If I am correct, we have discovered the murder weapon.”

 

John, who had been frozen since Sherlock had manhandled his own collar over his face, was glad of his military training. Otherwise he would have automatically panicked and thrashed and swung at Sherlock's sudden move to apparently smother him. He could feel the warmth from Sherlock's fingers through the collar and his body heat from the long line of consulting detective pressed almost against him. John silently cursed the awareness and tried to let his mind empty of Sherlock's closeness.

 

As it turns out, Imogene had the gardner put a nice little bouquet of “think of me” flowers on her husband's bedside table before she left on a “spontaneous” trip to Paris. Sherlock imagined she put in the final touches herself - a bit of greenery in the form of poisonous yew branches that grew in the formal garden. The yews began to droop after a few days and started to litter the table with their noxious pollen granules. The compulsively tidy husband either used his hand or a handkerchief to remove the offending botanical mess. He thereby stirred up enough of the pollen to irritate his sensitive bronchial mucosa and thus triggered the fatal attack.

 

Later interviews with the gardener would reveal that he had only put flowers in the arrangement, no greenery, and that Mrs. White was an avid orchid collector. She had amassed a rather sizable collection in a specially built conservatory on the first floor of the main house that she allowed no one entrance to. It was from those shears that Sherlock isolated the Taxus baccata pollen and sap from the yew stems that Imogene had cut with her scissors and tucked into the fateful flower posey. All that was left for a big insurance payout was to let time and her fussily clean husband do their work.

 

Sherlock pulled out his phone and quickly texted Lestrade.

 

_Wife's orchid shears have traces of toxic plant pollen. Her absence before the murder is a ruse. Arrest her. - SH_

 

John would surely give the case a ridiculously sensational name in his blog. He shuddered at the depths that his flatmate might go to with this one.

 

_Mrs. White, in the Conservatory, with the Scissors._

 

That irked Sherlock. There weren't any scissors in that ridiculous board game - only a dagger. John wouldn't care though. Details be damned. That was the Watson Way.

 

As if conjured out of thin air, The sound of John's footsteps on the stairs rose up into the flat and the man himself burst into the sitting room.

 

“Where's the scotch?” John snapped. Sherlock was uncertain if he was being  addressed or if John was simply talking aloud to himself.

 

The detective opened the cabinet and handed the bottle to his rather agitated flatmate. John grabbed a glass, poured two fingers into the tumbler, and knocked it back ruthlessly. Sherlock winced in sympathetic pain as John spluttered a bit before he marched right in front of him and stopped to glare up at his face.

 

“Stand right there,” John growled.

 

Sherlock, lost in that hesitant confusion, did what he was told for once. John stepped up to him, nearly on top of him in fact and looked up at the curly haired man's CERULEAN eyes and chuckled a bit madly to himself.

 

“I _knew_ I didn't usually crane my neck that much. Lemme see your mouth.” John swiped his thumb across Sherlock's Cupid’s bow and then to the impossibly fuller lower lip in turn.

 

“Yep. Yours are much plusher. Why didn't I see that right away?” John wrinkled his brow and looked insulted.

 

Sherlock squeaked at the touches to his lips and tried to rigidly weather this downright tactile assault from John as dignified as he could. They stared at each other for the eternity of a few seconds. Sherlock then quickly excused himself for the night, all but ran to his room, and slammed the door.

 

John hardly noticed. He sank into his chair and tried to find a little island of solace in the sea of chaos that was his mind right now. How had he mistaken Hamish for Sherlock really? Yes, the dark curly hair and the general tallness threw him immediately, as well as the similarly rounded posteriors.

 

_Oh, what NOW? Why did he know that?_

 

The American was taller, had a chin cleft Kirk Douglas would envy, had thinner lips, and lacked Sherlock's warm, spicy beguiling smell.

John's head snapped up rigidly. He hastily scanned the room for his flatmate which he was just now realizing, was no longer in said  room. He replayed the last five minutes quickly in his head. He had basically pushed himself inches from Sherlock, stared into his eyes, and then, oh _then_ , rubbed his fingers nearly salaciously over his lips. No wonder he had bolted.

 

_Fuuuck._

 

John sank back down into the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose dejectedly. He didn't want to even THINK about how oddly satisfying that had felt. Touching Sherlock. Damn damn damn. This day couldn't get any more messed up.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock slammed the door, took a ragged breath and locked the bolt. He hardly ever did that. Ever needed to. Not against John, at least. He slowly backed away from the barrier as if it was a mad animal that would pounce and devour him if he took his eyes off of it. The backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed and he sat heavily. He folded his body over his knees and grappled his fingers roughly through his thick locks, briefly sliding them down to cradle his face in his hands. Impatiently, he threw himself backwards and flung his arms out by his sides as he bored holes in the cracked ceiling over him with his glare. Without his permission, he realized his right hand had crept up gingerly to his mouth and was rubbing his lips lightly. As impossible as it seemed, he hardly wanted to admit to himself that he could still feel the sensation of John's fingers as he had stroked his mouth. The doctor's body had been so close and warm, smelling intoxicatingly like tea and cotton, and sunshine. The memory made him shiver and shift uncomfortably in his trousers. Sherlock covered his face again in frustration with his hands and rolled his body over to push into the bed awkwardly. An involuntary groan escaped his slack mouth as he searched for more friction.

 

_Betrayed by the madding transport. Again._


	3. Chapter 3

The week passed slowly for John. He was uncomfortably aware of Hamish wherever he was in the clinic and was oddly put off by the obvious popularity he seemed to have garnished in the short time he had been there. Hamish was gregarious and flirty and didn't seem to care whether the recipient was male or female. John just wished he would stop seeing Sherlock in the tall man's appearance. Maybe not even that. Seeing someone that favored Sherlock so much outwardly and yet acted so warmly and obviously enjoyed any interactions with John was oddly frustrating.

 

_What are you thinking? That you would want Sherlock to throw some positive attention your way? Like that would happen. Sherlock’s giant brain doesn't think like that. Doesn't acknowledge that, doesn't want that.  Let. It. Go._

 

John felt like he had these pep talks with himself daily. It was really starting to wear on him.

 

Friday afternoon, Hamish sidled up to John and playfully nudged his shoulder.

 

“Come out to the pub after work,” he cajoled. “It's been an insane week and we deserve it.” He smiled that 1000 watt American white-toothed smile and John found himself struggling to say anything but yes. He could use a pint and a bit of a wind down from the discombobulation of the past few days, even if Hamish was going to be there too.

 

“Sure, sure,” John capitulated. No harm in that, he justified.

 

“Great!” Hamish danced away, his arms full of charts. “I'll probably beat you there. I’ll save you a seat at the bar.” Another wink was thrown at John as he bounced down the hall.

 

John shook his head and went on to the next patient. Was that just an American thing? The exuberance? The loquaciousness?  It sure as hell wasn't British.

 

John spotted Sarah later on as she was entering some notes into the computer system. He could see Hamish at the end of the hallway, laughing with one of the older patients as she was leaving.

 

“He seems to have a way about him, doesn’t he?” Sarah remarked as she watched John observing the handsome nurse. “I swear he looks so much like your flatmate, sweeps around like him, then he opens his mouth, and is so clearly NOT Sherlock.”

 

John startled at her words.

 

“What do you mean?” he countered almost  defensively. “What's wrong with Sherlock?” He took pugnacious stance, hands on hips, leaning into Sarah.

 

“Easy, there,” Sarah put her hands up in mock surrender. “I know you have a special place in your heart for Sherlock, but you have to admit he isn't the friendliest of sort. Definitely doesn't smile and put people at ease like Hamish does. He's a natural at his job, it seems. Gets along with everyone and certainly with _you_.”

 

“Me? What do you mean?” John stuttered a bit with that last statement (neatly avoiding the first) and slid a quick look at his shoes before he met Sarah's gaze again.

 

Sarah flicked her own speculative gaze at John.

 

“He seems to save all his winks for you. Besides, Sherlock wouldn't approve. You know he doesn't share.” Sarah gathered her notebook and pens, and pushed her chair under the computer desk. She started make her way to her next patient, a pointed smirk hurled in John's direction.

 

John felt rooted to the spot.

 

_Hamish winked at everyone. Didn't he?_

 

He shook his head slightly and turned back to Sarah as she was opening the examination room door to enter.

 

_Sherlock doesn't share?? That was harsh._

 

Trying to act cooler that he felt, he casually placed his hand on her arm as he passed and called out evenly, “Yeah, well, see you later on, right? You can stand me a pint.” He leered and winked at HER.

 

_That would shut her up._

 

John proudly marched off down the hallway, so confident in his little act of swagger that he failed to see Sarah's look of confusion and faint words of, “Later on?”

 

Hamish did indeed beat John to the bar and had saved him a spot at the end next to him. He slid onto the stool and beckoned the bartender over for his order. Hamish was halfway into a glass of red wine and grinned at him wolfishly. John automatically grinned back. It just seemed natural. He took a look around after his beer at been delivered and the first sip gratefully taken.

 

A faint warning bell went off in his head.

 

There was no one else from the clinic in the pub. Just he and Hamish.


	4. Chapter 4

John took a long pull from his glass and shakily turned to Hamish.

 

“So, uh, where is everyone? I thought I was a bit late, actually,” he tried saying breezily.

 

Hamish set his drink down and toyed with the rim of the wine glass with a long, graceful finger.

 

“Oh, no. No, no,” the dark haired man chuckled. “Just me and you. Thought it would be good for us to get away from everything and just talk, be comfortable. Without distraction.” Hamish leaned in a bit with that last statement. “Don't know if that part is working though.You are even more distracting now than at the clinic.” He leaned in a even further towards John till their shoulders met for a moment before he pushed playfully away.

 

John could detect a brief snatch of Hamish’s cologne as the man pulled back. It was dark and earthy, yet with a powdery finish. He could almost taste it slightly on the roof of his mouth. Sherlock never wore anything as aggressively scented like that. His tastes ran more subtle in that arena (perhaps the only area he was less than blazingly upfront). He favored light, spicy, slightly smoky, or musk inspired scents for himself. John found himself reflexively breathing in deeply to catch a whiff of Sherlock's familiar smell and felt a brief pang of disappointment at its absence.

 

He shook his head to a bit, cleared his throat, which had gone a bit dry, and turned to the slyly smirking man on his left.

 

“So, then. Erm. Tell me more about yourself then. What's an American nurse doing in a NHS clinic in Central London?” John was pleased he got back on track again and his head out of thoughts of Sherlock. It seemed the man filtered his way through John's existence like osmosis. Ever pervasive and persistent, thy name is Sherlock Holmes.

 

Hamish straightened a bit on his bar stool and smiled. “I'm finishing my certification to be a nurse anesthetist. Bart's has a program that funnels medical personnel to humanitarian organizations around the world and that's what brought me here, That and the fact that I have some family I can sponge off of.” He paused and took a sip from the glass he was toying with again. “I can get my certification and have a clear path to join Doctors Without Borders. You wouldn't believe how competitive it is to be involved in medical humanitarian work. Luckily, I speak French, which is really in high demand -  Arabic is the other one they want. The NHS is obligated by the EU to send a certain percentage of medical personnel to help aid groups, so I enlisted, as it were. I guess it's like signing up for the military on work study. They didn't care that I was American to be in the program, so they get to exploit me a bit and use me a while I'm here to fill in for warm bodies within their system. So, here I am. Lucky you, Dr. Watson.”

 

This was punctuated with both a 1100 watt Hamish grin and the ubiquitous Hamish wink. John found himself flushing a bit pink under the paltry influence of a half a glass of lager and the sheer force of the man's personality. He was noble on top of all of that. Selfless, wanting to right the world's wrongs with his knowledge and skills. The military and medical man in John suddenly felt that was a very attractive quality in a person. He rotated on his stool so he was facing the American and leaned in a little closer.

 

“Tell me about where you want to go,” John started. “I've seen a bit of the less savory side of humanity and the world myself.”

 

They fell into easy conversation and the evening passed very pleasantly. John even managed to ignore a few texts from Sherlock, dismissing them to Hamish as being from his “manic flatmate looking for late night shopping services”. John returned to Baker Street a bit tipsy and to a rather stroppy and uncomfortable Sherlock.

 

As it turns out, once Sherlock had given up on texting John, he resorted to talking to him as if he were in the room for about an hour before he got home. He was quite vexed that John had not brought the container of 40 volume hairdresser’s bleach, level 8 hair colour, boar's hair brushes, and saccharine packets he had texted AND so politely asked the doctor for (according to Sherlock).

 

Why did Sherlock do that? Was he so unaffected by John's presence that he could hardly discern when he was even there or not? John dejectedly sighed and helped the lanky man from his awkward position with his knees folded under him on the floor beside the kitchen table.

 

“You know I don't hear you when I'm not actually here, you great cracking idiot,” John muttered sourly. “What the hell were you doing on the floor anyway?”

 

Sherlock moaned as he tried to straighten his legs out. He had been sitting on his heels for the better part of an hour waiting for word from John and for his supplies. Once he had them, he would be able to wrap up the salon murders he had been working on that night. Lestrade thought he was SO amusing with that one. Like Sherlock would have some sort of inside information about the life of hairdressers, just because he took SOME pride in the appearance of his own coiffure.

 

Sherlock attempted to stand to berate John a bit more for his inattention, when his legs gave out and it was only the doctor's quick intervention that prevented him from hitting the floor. John hauled him up, wrapped his arms around the immobilized detective, dragged him over to his leather chair, and gently sat him down. He bent to his own knees and began carefully palpating Sherlock's numb thighs and calves.

 

“Oww!” interjected Sherlock unhelpfully.

 

John had gone from clinical finger prodding and assessing after ascertaining that there was no real damage, to a broader palm stroke of effleurage up Sherlock's quadriceps and calf muscles to get some feeling back into them. John lost himself for a moment in the rhythmic movements of his own hands on the Sherlock's legs. The muscles were firm beneath his touch, as well as soft and warm, even through the light woolen trousers. It felt good, just the contact of the clothed skin beneath his open palm. He hummed a bit in satisfaction. He hadn't realized how long Sherlock's legs really were until he could see his own hands on them in contrast. Warm and long and fit so nicely in his palm. John realized rather belatedly that his hands had stopped moving and were resting somewhat expectantly on Sherlock's upper thighs. He jerked his head up to find the owner of the legs staring down at him, less than fully focused through heavy, almost sultry lids. He drew back his hands as if from a potentially armed explosive and pulled himself to his own feet.

 

_What the hell was I just doing? That wasn't clinical. I was rubbing, no, FONDLING his legs. And it felt GOOD._

 

_“_ Why were you kneeling for so long?” John huffed, trying act causally scolding. “Do you know where the hot water bottle is? I'm going to do that up for you to loosen up your muscles.”

 

John escaped to the kitchen, busying himself with his self imposed task.

 

Sherlock was almost glad John had rushed away. The feel of his strong, competant hands on him, even innocently, was almost too intense. Almost. In his own defense, innocence could be debated at the end there perhaps. John had slowed the massaging to a virtual crawl until his hands had just rested warmly on the sensitive tops of Sherlock's thighs, fingers caressing them softly. He had mentally pleaded with John to trail his hands up just a little bit higher and then bring them together to meet each other right over the growing tightness in his trousers...

 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat to force the image to dissipate. “I hadn't realized it had been so long. I was working at the table with the hair swatches,and a draft blew them on the floor. I suppose I got, erm, d-distracted picking them up.”

 

John poked his head out of the kitchen for a moment to give Sherlock an odd look.

 

_Did Sherlock just stutter?_

 

“You got distracted and stayed on the floor so long you compressed nerves and mucked up your circulation? Who is the idiot now?” He shook his head and went back to the task of heating the water for the bottle.

 

He never heard Sherlock's whispered reply.

 

“You didn't answer my texts. I was wondering if you were alright.”

 

The truth was, after getting no response from John on his mobile and rejecting calling in a favor from Mycroft, an admittedly, ahem, concerned Sherlock attempted to distract himself by dipping into his Mind Palace to have a conversation with John there. Peripherally, he was aware that he had knocked some of his hair samples on the floor. Somehow, as he knelt down to get them, the Mind Palace room shifted to the pool scene. He found himself kneeling in front of John, ripping the semtex vest off of him again and again and again, but no matter what he did, the explosives went off every time. Only when John had walked into the sitting room in the actual flat did the image fade and Sherlock had slumped in relief.


	5. Chapter 5

It was Autumn in London. There was a cool nip to the air, a occasional wisp of smoke from the chimneys lingering in the air. The lovely, vibrant changing of colour of the leaves brightened everyone's faces and cruelly marked the insidious beginning of flu season. 

 

That meant it was time to go canvassing for patients. The NHS would have clinics send their staff round to high risk groups - children, pregnant women, and the elderly that were in clinical settings. Schools, nursing homes, the like, were all hot spots. It was John's turn and his assignment was The Kensington Care Home on Ladbroke Road. It wasn't a long trip on the Tube, he thought to himself as he grabbed his coat and chanced a look towards Sherlock's room. The door was surprisingly open this time of morning. John quietly changed course from the stairs to have a look. The bed was empty and neatly made. No sign of the room's occupant. John frowned briefly. Had Sherlock gone out last night after, well, the whole leg thing? Got a case early this morning and not told him? He'd have to text him later to check on him. Maybe he had embarrassed the younger man with his rather unprofessional groping. That thought seemed to disturb him more than he wished to really examine. Distractedly, John descended the staircase, locked the door to 221B, and headed towards the Baker Street station entrance. He had one stop to make before his day began with flu shots for cranky pensioners.

  
  


\-----

 

Sherlock hadn't slept. After John had kindly put the warm bundle of the hot water bottle on his legs, he had shooed the doctor away to bed. He insisted he was perfectly alright and settled in for a bit of a sulk. Where HAD John been? He had a few beers, that was definite. He had been to the pub close to the clinic, owing to a few stray peanut hulls and skins that Sherlock noticed had stuck to John's jumper. That pub set out dishes of unshelled nuts for the patrons to help themselves to. Messy and distressingly plebeian. There was also a curiously heavy scent of cologne on John's jacket, one reminiscent of Rive Gauche pour Homme by Yves Saint Laurent, if he wasn't mistaken.

 

_ Ugh. Revolting. _

 

Was that pseudo 80’s patchouli and rosemary powdered monstrosity picking up popularity again? Had it been crowded and John had been pressed up against some other pub goer with obnoxious taste in overpowering cologne? Expensive taste, but overzealous, all the same. At least it wasn't a feminine perfume. Sherlock felt somewhat mollified in that. John had come home too early for that and alone.

 

Pacing and flopping himself down on the sofa last night hadn't helped. He gave up around dawn, sullenly donned his beloved coat and headed out for an early morning constitutional to Regent’s Park. He just needed to get out of the flat. To let his skin breathe. He couldn't stop thinking about the way John's hands had felt on him. He visualized it; John on his knees in front of him, concentrating hard, his errant tongue flicking out to lick his lips at odd intervals. Sherlock shook his head as if to physically clear these thoughts. He needed to stop tormenting himself. It was done. No chance of anything happening between them anyway. “I'm not his date,” and the ever present, “I'm not gay.”  Sherlock might have had a very small window with that, but he had slammed the door pretty hard on John that first night they met. How could he have known that John going to be so different? Accepting? Interesting? Interested?

 

_ No. Enough.  _

 

The Work was who he was. What defined him and nothing would change that. 

 

_ Do I really believe that still? _

 

Alone is what kept him safe. Not even a seemingly unassuming army doctor that thought he was brilliant could alter that. One who had the strength and nobility of a fierce jungle beast and still the soft kindness of the sort of person that Sherlock himself could never deserve. 

 

Sherlock couldn't help but drift into the gently worn corridors of his Mind Place into the John wing. He opened the well-used door to the memory of that first night at Angelo's.  The room always had an odd, ethereal quality to it. He never could get a crystal clear view of it, unlike most of his rooms and spaces. He blamed sentiment and maudlin misleanings. The candle flickering, John's shifting and hesitant lip licking. “You're unattached - just like me.” 

 

Sherlock often pondered on that evening. As many times as he had watched it replayed over and over in his mind, he had still had the vaguely unsettled feeling that somehow, this memory had been corrupted; misrepresented in a way. He felt as though he was somehow projecting his own attraction and interest onto John and that perversely twisted flirtation never really happened, or never meant what Sherlock hoped it had.

 

What did it matter though? His own inane backpedaling of, “I'm married to my work,” ended all possibilities of anything right there, even if John HAD been testing the waters. A broken sigh of remorse heaved itself from his lungs and the detective felt his eyes sting minutely as he screwed them closed tightly. He opened them again when he felt he could without pain and started mindlessly trudging along again.

 

Sherlock headed back home, thoughts still as heavy as his feet. He rounded the corner and was startled to see John leaving the flat. It was much too early for him to be going to the clinic. Where was he going? Sherlock felt he had no other course of action to take and followed him at a discreet distance. 

 

John emerged from Piccadilly Circus station and walked the few minutes to Golden Square. Nordic Bakery had been a happy find a while ago. It wasn't terribly close to the flat, but it served for special occasions or when he felt like an extra walk. The Scandinavian coffee was quite good and the cinnamon buns were even better. He had agreed to meet his medical assistant for the day there, then hop on the Tube again and head over to Kensington. Opening the bakery door, he was assaulted by the rich aromas of coffee beans, rye bread, cinnamon and vanilla. He approached the counter and browsed the baked goods for a moment before he caught a glimpse of the lean, dark, curly haired man sitting in the rear bar area with two cups of to-go coffee in front of him. 

 

John smiled and set his arm along the back of the occupant's chair as he approached. He leaned in towards the man's ear.

 

“Hello, Hamish.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had been stymied at the door of the bakery. He couldn't enter without being completely visible to most of the patrons inside and was unfortunately wearing very recognizable outerwear that his quarry would immediately identify. He settled for standing by the propped open door, pretending to text on his phone before entering the cafe. He watched John's broad back at the bakery case then as he went deeper in the cafe to the back bar where he approached a seated man with a Burberry trenchcoat with what looked to be scrubs underneath. A bizarre combination. Sherlock watched with his head turned halfway towards the interior, so it was just a portion of his profile he was risking. John was in profile as well, so Sherlock was able to read the words from his lips as he greeted the seated man.

 

“Hello, Hamish.”

 

Hamish? That was curious, seeing how that was John's name as well. Sherlock could make out a bit more of the conversation before “Hamish” rose to stand in the queue at the bakery counter. “Sugar", “Kensington”, “pensioners”, and “22 to 25 gauge needles” were words he caught that he could identify. “Hamish” was also being a bit handsy. Sherlock bristled at that.

 

“Hi, John!” Hamish had only a 500 watter for John this morning.

 

Perhaps he wasn't really a morning person.

 

“I'm still asleep, dammit,” he mockingly groused. “I got you coffee, though I wasn't sure what you might like to eat or if you had any restrictions. It's cream, no sugar, right?”

 

“No sugar. Definitely no sugar.” John's eyebrows furrowed briefly as he recalled the one time Sherlock had given him sugared coffee. “I like just about anything, except having to mince about with ungrateful pensioners who accuse us of shooting them full of sedatives and mind control substances instead of flu shots.”

 

“That good, huh?” smirked Hamish. They don't even have to pay. Better than being in the States. They get a free ride here. I brought 22 to 25 gauge needles. Maybe I should have brought a few big adrenaline needles for show and scare them into soiling their Depends?”

 

John laughed and Hamish cranked his own smile up to an improving 750 watts.

 

“I'll go get us some cinnamon rolls for the road then. Get this over Pulp Fiction style, with our tasty beverages”. Hamish ran his hand across John's shoulders carelessly as he got up to join the counter queue.

 

John sipped his coffee appreciatively as he waited. Hamish knew how he took his coffee. He couldn't help but like the man. He seemed simple and uncomplicated. What a switch that was. When the nurse returned, he rose, and they left side by side, not noticing the lanky loiterer who had found a seat hunched at the cafe tables out front, again pretending to be transfixed with his phone.

 

Sherlock raised his nose as John and the tall, dark haired man in the Burberry coat left. Yves Saint Laurent. Rive Gauche. It was the same person John had been with last night. Sherlock shuddered with disgust and then in a fit of pique, started his walk back to the flat.

 

\-----

 

“What an ordeal,” Hamish huffed as the two men walked along towards the station.

 

“Hey, at least you didn't get your shoes pissed on by one of the resident’s contraband cats,” John countered.

 

Hamish shot him a sheepish look.

 

“You got me there. I just thought the old gal was playing hard to get when she wouldn't let you into her room. Who knew it was because she was hoarding fuzz balls on the sly. That orange one did NOT like you. Stupid cat.”

 

Hamish turned that sloe-eyed grin John's way, and nudged his hip into the doctor’s.

 

“Tell you what. I'm starving and I know you are too. Dinner's on me, wherever you want to go,” Hamish countered. “Besides, it'll help you get your mind off of bad pussy.” Hamish could hardly contain his glee with that wretched line.

 

John stopped in his surprise, completely ignoring the tortured innuendo. “Dinner? I couldn't possibly with the way my shoes reek of cat piss right now. I'd get thrown out of anywhere you could think of. Thanks, but no.”

 

_Was that the faint sound of warning bells again?_

 

“Go get a fresh pair then. I'll wait. I'll even go over to your place to get them with you,” Hamish went on, seemingly innocently.

 

John considered this for the briefest of seconds. No way in _hell_ was he bringing Hamish anywhere NEAR Sherlock. The last thing he needed was deductions that he really didn't want to have to think about. Really.

 

John wracked his brain for a quick solution.

 

“You know where The Volunteer is right at the Baker Street station? Let's head there, you get a table, and I'll get clean shoes and meet you back.”

 

Hamish gave him the incandescent 1000 watter and the plan was set in motion.

 

John raced up the stairs at 221B and quietly and fervently willed Sherlock not to be home. Sitting room - empty. Same emptiness in the kitchen. He continued up to his room, not quite believing his luck. Opening his closet, he pondered his shoe choices and a maybe shirt change. It was not like he was hiding anything from Sherlock, he sanctimoniously told himself. He just really didn't want to have to explain that he was having dinner with a gregarious, playful, and even affectionate version of his flatmate, TO his flatmate.

 

_Fuck. That even sounded bad to ME. I KNOW. I'm not blind. They rather, er, favor one another. Physically. Ok - need to stop talking here..._

 

John slammed the closet shut and headed down the stairs.

 

“You are going out _again_? How tiresome,” the velvet-over-steel voice rumbled from the hallway.

 

Of COURSE Sherlock was home. John had stupidly neglected to notice the closed bathroom door.

 

Sherlock, adorned in his dark blue dressing gown and pajama bottoms (no shirt, curiously enough), shrunk his deducing eyes to slits as he took in John's appearance from top to bottom and stopped at the shoes.

 

_Second best pair of shoes. John is meeting someone that he cares to make a good impression with, but not overly so._

 

Sherlock then took in John's general countenance.

 

_John in his second best pair of shoes could suggest one thing - Date night. But something was different. Off. John was fidgety, almost nervous. Why? John was charming and at ease around these women usually; making them smile, laugh easily, and generally getting them to like him. Why would he seem so off his game? Unless the players had changed._

 

_He couldn't._

 

_Wouldn't. Would he?_

 

_Damn. Of course._

 

Sherlock vowed right there, to never buy anything from Yves Saint Laurent ever again. EVER.

 

\-----

 

The next morning found Sherlock draped listlessly across whatever piece of furniture he was on like a swooning Regency wallflower. John had stayed out late for him on a work night (1 o'clock) and went straight to his room. Sherlock pretended not notice his return (slightly flushed, probably from the couple of glasses of wine with his dinner and a general reluctance to meet Sherlock's eyes). He was strangely disappointed at the short, “G'nite, Sherlock,” as John climbed the stairs. Sherlock sighed in annoyance with himself.

 

What had happened to the whole “I’m not his date,” and “I'm not actually gay”? This “date” was undoubtedly the interloper from the bakery. Based on the snatches of conversation he had heard and the scrubs the man had been wearing at the time, the detective came to the conclusion that Tall, Dark and Tiresome must be a fellow worker at the clinic. Certainly not a doctor, but medical staff of some sort. The man had said he brought supplies to wherever he and John were going this morning. There he was, eagerly fetching coffee and running his eyes covetously over his best friend and flatmate. Not to mention touching him. He remembered that detail with a dark scowl.

 

_No one is allowed that kind of access to John Watson. I have ways of making interested parties retreat. Ask his pathetic string of ex-girlfriends._

 

Somewhere deep within Sherlock Holmes, a sleepy, shadowy beast stirred. It had not had its slumber disturbed in quite a while now. The ill-tempered projection lifted its head and scented the air. It smelled blood.

 

_MINE._

 

So. Annoying cologne boy worked at the clinic. Time to do a bit of investigating.

 

The game was on.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock entered the clinic the next afternoon looking a little less like his usual self. No Belstaff, black framed glasses with no glass, dark jeans, and a chunky white cardigan. A blue Chelsea watch cap covered his curls,  sturdy work boots left over from a case on his feet, and a messenger bag slung across his body. He entered to a press of bodies milling about, some waiting patiently, others, not so patiently. The staff bustled busily and the whole office put off a sort of odd hum.

 

He checked his watch - nearly half 12. He approached the front desk.

 

“Hiii!”

 

He pitched his fake, interested smile to the twenty-something manning the clinic check-in. She was a suitably vacant sort, unconvincingly trying to act like she was paying more attention to her clinic charges than her Twitter feed on her mobile by her elbow. She kept checking it and typing manically at regular intervals.

 

“I'm here for my 12:45 appointment,” Sherlock offered, waiting to see if he could get a fish on the line with minimal information.

 

_Unattached female, though spent most of last night at one of the clubs down the street with her girlfriends when she should have been studying - a closed maths book was at her arm under her mobile, and stamps on her hands. No luck at the club. Edgy and nervy. He sniffed and caught a faint whiff off stress perspiration. Curious. Hasn't had her hair done in approximately 6 weeks and whoever did it, managed to bleed the highlights along her temples and completely turn the ends to ashy straw._

 

Damn Lestrade and his moronic hairdresser case.

 

“Who are you seeing today?” the girl shot back nervously.

 

Sherlock ducked his head sheepishly then tried to meet her eyes bashfully. The gesture seem to knock his age down ten years.

 

“Oh, I feel like _such_ a right moron. I've forgotten who I'm here to see. Just that it's today at 12:45. Had to run from Calculus to make it on time.” Sherlock stuck out his tongue and made a show of rolling his eyes at the THOUGHT of maths. He finished the little performance and smiled back coyly.

 

“Oi, I hate that crap too,” the girl cooed, seeming relieved. “I'm struggling myself.” She absently patted the book besides her. Feathers smoothed, she pulled up the doctor's schedules on her computer and had a look. He WAS rather cute with those hipster glasses.

 

“Well, it can't be Dr. Rowe or Dr. Watson - they already have patients now, so it must be Dr. Sawyer, Mr. uh, Lopez,” she squinted at the bookings again and nodded.

 

The girl looked hopefully at Sherlock.

 

“ Ah, _yes._ Dr. Sawyer. I feel like such a twat. Thanks. Thanks so much!” Sherlock beamed painfully at Ms. Dark Roots.

 

“Go ahead and have a seat,” she simpered. “The doc should be with you in a bit. It's been a bit mental today, might be a little longer than usual.”

 

Sherlock nodded his understanding and spun around and took a seat with a good view of the inside of the clinic. One optimally away from the front desk. He huffed a small breath at his luck. The silly girl could have asked for his name before she tried to figure out which doctor he would be seeing. That would have meant less intel gleaned about what the other doctors were doing.

 

Sarah was who he had come to see. She could to be useful in information about the horrid Hamish. He had altered his usual garb so he might be able to observe the interloper without calling attention to himself. Be inconspicuous then as unmemorable as possible usually worked quite effectively.

 

Sherlock's nose twitched. He caught the musty patchouli scent as a scrubs-clad figure emerged from the main hallway. Identity confirmed. Hamish. He had stopped at the front desk to pick up patient files. He leaned down to whisper something in Blondie's ear, and she barked out a laugh that she tried to immediately cover up. Hamish threw a blindingly white grin at her as he scooped up one file and stopped for a moment to read it.

 

Hamish was indeed a bit taller than himself, slim and chisel-faced. Sherlock coldly eyed his curls - frizzy from excessive handling and fussing, he sneered contemptuously. The warm brown eyes were hardly as interesting as his own blue-green ones and Hamish's fingernails were bitten down and marred the long fingers. Try playing Brahms’ Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 77 on a violin with _those,_ Lothario.

 

_What?_

 

Sherlock realized what he had just done. He had just compared Hamish to himself physically and gone right for the throat. How Neanderthal.

 

_Well, why not? John would obviously be better off choosing himself over than the eager to please-wagging-his-little-tail-look-at-me-upstart. John and I have history. Camaraderie. Chemistry. You only...LOOK like... ME._

 

_Oh._

 

Sherlock grimaced at this conclusion and shook his head like he was shooing away a bothersome fly.

 

_Focus. Can't consider that now._

 

_But…? No. NOT. NOW._

 

Hamish closed the file and called out the next patient.

 

“Mrs. Greene?” A heavily pregnant woman with another child hanging off her hip and other assorted dangling baby accoutrement, waddled up and followed Hamish down the hall. He could hear them faintly as they walked further away from the waiting area.

 

“You look positively radiant, Mrs. Greene. Can I take your baby bag? It looks terribly heavy. Allow me, please.”

 

Mrs. Greene gratefully handed over the bag, and flashed Hamish a genuinely thankful expression.

 

_Humph. Do-gooder. Bet John just eats that up._

 

Sherlock's face twitched uncomfortably at that thought.

 

_Time to move._

 

Sherlock stood and walked to corridor that led to the loos. Once inside, he removed the glasses, cardigan, and the hat.  He fluffed his curls by shaking them up to the roots and extracted the Belstaff from the messenger bag. A quick look in the mirror verified his transformation. Satisfactory. He went back out to the waiting area and took a different seat.

 

Another nurse approached the desk and picked up a file.

 

“Mr. Lopez?” She looked around expectantly. “Mr. Lopez?” She leaned over the maths hating assistant’s shoulder to check the scheduling screen.

 

Blondie took a cursory look around the waiting area, then shrugged, and mouthed to the nurse, “Dunno. He was here before.” The nurse sighed and walked away, presumably to tell Dr. Sawyer she had a little free time now.

 

_All going to plan._

 

He waited until he saw Hamish coming back down the hall towards the front of the clinic. He stood abruptly and managed to knock the files out of the man's hands, papers scattering to the floor.

 

_Did he just 'yip’? Startles easily, it would seem._

 

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Hamish grabbed Sherlock's shoulders to steady him. “Are you alright? I was a little distracted there. I'm a bit unsteady today, I'm afraid.” He laughed self deprecatingly.

 

The two locked in on each other for a long moment. Hamish drew in a quick breath and Sherlock narrowed his eyes into a dangerous squint. Sherlock felt the air in the room vibrate for the briefest of instants. It was as if the two of them were the Marshall and the Outlaw in one of those Old West American style movies that John liked to watch occasionally for some reason. Sherlock could imagine the climax of the story playing out before them -  It was high noon. The two characters were alone, facing each other menacingly, hands twitching anxiously towards their gun holsters. Someone wasn't going to leave that dusty street alive.


	8. Chapter 8

Hamish let go of the coat and gave Sherlock a quick up and down assessment. He bent to pick up the papers, and stood staring appraisingly.

 

“Wait. You must be Jo- uhm, Dr. Watson's flatmate, yeah? Sherlock? I've heard him talk about you. I'd recognize the coat just from his description. He says you hate the summer when you can't wear it. It really DOES suit you though. Quite a handsome picture.” Hamish flicked an appreciation to the line of the coat and to what could be seen under it. He speculatively dragged his gaze back up to the upturned collar and pale neck. He grinned slyly at Sherlock's dangerously arched eyebrow, acknowledging that he knew that Sherlock was aware of what he had just done.

 

Sherlock felt he deserved some sort of reward for NOT rolling his eyes and spewing out the most embarrassing deductions he could muster at the nurse as they stood, still in the middle of the hallway.

 

_American. Here for a short time and staying with older Scottish relatives - he noted the fleck of oatmeal and what appeared to be ground organ meat on the scrub top. Who else would foist haggis on guests? Suffering a bit of a hangover this morning - a slight avoidance at the lights and puffiness under the eyes. Also displaying an edge of manic suppression like the girl. Interesting. Prone to panic attacks, perhaps? Possibly bisexual - his eyes followed nearly everyone he encountered appreciatively and with interest. Myself included. His posture changed when he started to mention John's first name - he stood taller and more aggressively and used his height to his advantage. Sees me as a rival, perhaps? Good._

 

_Ahem. Keep to topic._

 

_Genuinely enjoys his work and is_ _ambitious and well liked, if not thought be a bit forward and salacious._

 

Sherlock relented. Hamish wasn't a menacing character, it would seem. That didn't mean he had to like him though. OR his accept his presence in John's personal life.

 

Sherlock turned his own, albeit fake, dazzling smile on the interloper. Time to get back to business.

 

“I know JOHN is busy now, but would Sarah, I mean, DR. SAWYER, be free for just a moment? I just have something brief I need to discuss with her.”

 

_He could play that game too._

 

Hamish paused, walked to the front desk and gave the computer screen a quick glance.

 

“Looks like she has a slot open right now - she had a no-show. She's probably grabbing a quick break in the kitchen. It's been ridiculously loco today. Must be a full moon or something. C'mon. I'll take you to her.” Hamish gallantly pointed around the corner.

 

Sherlock feigned appreciation. “I know where -  Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Please do,” he caught himself and allowed Hamish to lead him back to the staff kitchen area.

 

Hamish insisted on talking as they walked.

 

“I've been following Dr. Watson's blog. The adventures seem like something from a James Bond movie sometimes. I didn't know people could really be like that! He lives for that, doesn't he? He has a great deal of respect for you, you know. You can tell in his writing.”

 

Sherlock paused midstep.

 

“John has helped me endeavor to deserve that respect. He is truly a remarkable man.” Sherlock spoke quietly and then stopped to wait for entrance at the staff kitchen door.

 

Sarah was indeed having a break. The morning had been an extremely stressful one, even by her standards and she was grateful for the unexpected quiet moment.

 

Hamish opened the door, ushered Sherlock inside and effectively negated that brief respite Sarah had been enjoying.

 

Sherlock breezed over to her and clasped her arm in a friendly manner. She startled for a moment before Sherlock hurriedly smiled his calculated, “Just relax, I'm a harmless, toothless old crocodile,” smile at her.

 

Hardly convinced, Sarah quirked her eyebrows at him suspiciously. Sherlock quickly rushed to fill the awkward pause.

 

“Hi, Sarah! So sorry to disturb you. I know John is busy now and I could use your assistance. I rather, erm, _borrowed_ something of John's and neglected to get it back in his bag in time before he left this morning.”

 

Sherlock tried his hand at looking remorseful and contrite. Sarah wasn't quite biting yet and the annoying Hamish was still standing there curiously. Pity he wasn't selling this to him. He clearly could have told the naive man any tired story and he would have been taken in.

 

At that moment, the other nurse bustled into the kitchen, clearly on a search mission. She spotted Hamish and reached out to grab him.

 

“Mrs. Greene in #2 needs her nappy bag. She said you put it up for her. Go get it, if you would, luv?” the woman gestured in the direction of the mentioned examination room.

 

Hamish grinned and excused himself politely with a joking tone under his breath. “Une femme enceinte ne devrait jamais avoir à attendre.” *** He gave Sherlock a surprisingly shrewd glance as he walked out of the room. He didn't shut the door quite hard enough and it popped open slightly again. It seemed as though it didn't fit in the frame quite correctly.

 

Sherlock caught himself returning the look briefly. The man's accent had been exceptional and somehow it vexed Sherlock irrationally.

 

_Focus._

 

Sherlock rummaged carefully in the messenger bag and pulled out John's stethoscope. Sarah's face immediately changed. She look relieved and immensely pleased.

 

_There you go, Dr. Sawyer. That wasn't so difficult._

 

“Oh, he's been searching _everywhere_ for that!” Sarah exclaimed. “He _swore_ he had packed it in his bag after yesterday. He's been tearing the place apart this morning, just in case and had been nearly inconsolable about misplacing it. His parents gave it to him when he graduated from Bart's, you know. He was so worried that he had left it at the retirement home yesterday or on the Tube somehow. He even called the home to see if they had it.”

 

Sherlock frowned at that. He had pilfered the stethoscope from John's medical bag last night when he got home, before he had gone back out to meet the wretched Hamish. Sherlock felt an unexpected pang of remorse and regret for making John worry about the loss of what he had thought was just a simple tool of John's work. He had no idea John had such an attachment to the device and wished belatedly that he had nicked something more emotionally neutral to forward his plan.

 

Sherlock genuinely looked pained when he spoke again.

 

“Please,” he roughly beseeched Sarah. “Help me get it back to him without him knowing it was my doing. He just left too early and before I could return it. I had no idea he'd be so, well, bothered by it; that it meant so much to him. He'll be apocalyptically cross with me. I can't say I can blame him now.” Sherlock looked and sounded rather crushed.

 

Sarah was clearly astounded by Sherlock's confession. This wasn't the sociopath she had seen manipulate and coerce without care except for furthering his own causes. He was actually concerned that John was distressed and repentant of his part in causing that. She had never seen Sherlock like this - so human and even caring about John’s feelings. She actually felt bad for him, even though he had brought this upon himself. She was tempted to just tell him to man up and give it back to John and take his punishment. But something in Sarah had shifted. She saw Sherlock in a way she hadn't before and right there, she decided she would help him.

 

Her expression visibly softened. “Let's see what we can do,” she started. “You obviously didn't _mean_ to send John into panic. The bag of supplies they took yesterday is still in his office. He brought them back this morning. I know he looked in it briefly in his search today, but I bet I could come up with a reason for him to look again and find it there.”

 

Sherlock look relieved. Sarah got up and left the kitchen. She walked by to see if John’s office was empty and accessible - Check. John was courteously walking his patient to the front. She casually re-entered the kitchen.

 

“You go put it in the blue supply bag that is sitting on the right side of his desk,” Sarah whispered to Sherlock conspiratorially. “The leftover vaccines and wipes and such are still in there. Put it in deep and he'll think he just stuffed it in there and didn't see it the first go around. I'll go keep him busy up front for a few minutes. Go now. Come back here and I'll tell you when it is safe to leave.”

 

Sherlock raised his mental estimation of Dr. Sawyer up a few notches. He nodded his thanks and slipped out of the room, down the hall, and into John's office. The bag was exactly where she described and he pushed the stethoscope down to the bottom of the capacious bag. He left the room unobserved and returned to await Sarah back in the kitchen. He heard John's footsteps and voice as he brought his next patient to the room and the noise of him closing his office door.

 

Sherlock realized he had been holding his breath. Sarah stealthily returned, shutting the door behind her. It stubbornly popped open a touch, but she paid it no mind.

 

“You are in my debt now, Mr. Holmes,” she mockingly teased, tilting her head at him.

 

Sherlock knew she was not being entirely serious, but there was a bit of truth in her words. He felt as though he would honor them, if she ever asked for some inexplicable reason.

 

“Thank you, Dr. Sawyer. I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf, ” Sherlock honestly intoned. “I apologise for adding to your strenuous day. Your nurse had indicated that  it had been a particularly arduous one thus far.”

 

He raised his brows questioningly and left the sentence open ended.  

 

Sarah sighed and sat heavily.

 

“You didn't hear? We had quite an incident earlier - the police had to be involved. John is fine. We all had a fright, but as a group, we decided to push through today. Stiff upper lip and all that.” Sarah tittered at her own joke.

 

Sherlock's face blossomed with terrified naked concern.

 

Sarah stared at Sherlock's face.

 

_There it was again. He IS human. Wonder what has brought that on all the sudden?_

 

Sara motioned for Sherlock to sit and proceeded to tell the morning's tale.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation *** A pregnant woman should never have to wait.
> 
> Well, duh.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aforementioned violence in this chapter. Don't worry - it's a lot less scary than the average episode...
> 
> Also- Thanks for following along thus far! Feel free to comment at any time and let me know things you liked or struck you along the way. Your thoughts and impressions are my locked room murder case...

_Earlier that morning at the clinic..._

 

John was angry, scared, and actually on the verge of being sick. He couldn't find his stethoscope. His engraved, graduation gift stethoscope that his parents had presented him with after the ceremony. He knew it wasn't a cheap gift, that it had taken his folks a bit of doing to acquire for him. He had faithfully used during his internship and residency and even to Afghanistan back without hardly a scratch. Now it would seem that he left it somewhere in Kensington or along way there or back.

 

How could he do such a monumentally idiotic thing?

 

John wasn't in the greatest of mindsets when he saw Mr. Chamberlain first thing that morning.

 

Mr. Chamberlain was one of those patients that bounced from clinic to clinic with vague symptoms of pain - his lower back, migraines,joints, whatever he could say to convince the medical staff to prescribe him pain meds for him. They had identified him as a pain medication addict fairly quickly and tried to refer him to the proper channels that could address his problem and give him the help and support he needed.

 

Mr. Chamberlain unfortunately refused to admit he had any sort of problem. He loudly blamed the doctors and nurses for not caring, or not giving a damn and he couldn't help it if he had so many things wrong with him that he needed relief from. They had sent him on his way with phone numbers and website addresses, hoping he might concede to trying them in the privacy of his own home.

 

It had been a few weeks and he was back. The first appointment of the day, Seven fucking o’clock in the morning. John had been irritated to have the early shift that morning, but what can you do? Same complaints, but now with a definite edge to them and to the patient. John watched the man for a few moments as he took notes.

 

_Irritability._  
_Increased respirations._  
_Enlarged pupils._  
_Reported loss of appetite._  
_Tremors and shaking._ _  
_ Sweating.

_Confusion._

 

The man was dangerously approaching withdrawal, John clinically diagnosed. He also seemed sleep deprived which wasn't helpful in the least. Better contact the proper departments while he was here in the office. He might need to be sectioned.

 

Mr. Chamberlain  was suddenly on his feet, shouting at John. He needed something. NOW. It was unbearable and he needed to make it all stop and Dr. Watson better do what he asked. John quietly hit the intercom button on his desk phone as he made a pointed display of putting his clipboard and pen down slowly and non threateningly. His thought was that what was happening in his office was now would be broadcast to all the phones in the clinic. Someone could then get the police here as soon as possible. He just had to talk the raving drug deprived man down a bit.

 

Up at the front desk, Blondie and Hamish were chatting. There wasn't much to do this early in the morning usually. They both heard the ruckus in John's room over the phone's speaker and looked at each other in horror.

 

“What do we _DO?”_ Blondie fidgeted wildly and stage-whispered to Hamish. “There's people out here - did anyone hear that?” She looked around nervously at the two or three early appointment patients.

 

Hamish looked jumpily around as well. “I don't think so. Should we go help Dr. Watson? Oh, man. What if that guy gets violent or crazy?” Hamish froze. He and Blondie looked at each other like proverbial deer in the headlights.

 

The spell was dispelled when Sarah briskly trotted from her office to the front desk. She must have heard the disturbance over the phone in her office as well. She leaned heavily over the counter and eyed them both with frank disdain.

 

“It means Deirdre,” she quietly forced through clenched teeth, “ That YOU will dial 999 right fucking _now_. Tell them we have a disturbed and possibly violent drug addict and we need assistance. YOU, Hamish Waugh, will get the people here in the waiting area outside as well as Nurse Nan. Quietly. Make something up. Gas leak, whatever. We can't have a potential hostage situation. I'm going to lock down the lab staff. Dr. Rowe isn't here yet, is she?”

 

Deirdre nodded a shaky _no_ to that.

 

Sarah knew about hostage situations first hand. She wasn't going to let herself feel as out of control as she had then.

 

_Not this time._

 

Once they had directives, the two responded much more efficiently. Deirdre called the authorities quietly and Hamish began to herd the smattering of early morning patients and the other nurse under the pretense of a threat to the building. It was a sign of the more dangerous times they lived in in Great Britain that they got little resistance from the waiting patients. Most of them had experienced an evacuation drill or had been in a similar scenario before. They grumbled a bit, but followed Hamish out to the sidewalk outside. He left Deirdre with wait with them and went back inside to try and get his things from his locker- like his coat.

 

Hamish heard the escalating, shrill, unreasonable complaints of the patient. John was trying to walk him out of his office, into the more open area of the hallway. The army doctor was hoping Mr. Chamberlain would feel less threatened in the larger space and that the police would be in a better position to escort him out from there.

 

John flicked his eyes and thankfully took in that the waiting area was empty. The staff had gotten patients and themselves to safety and the police would be here shortly. Thank God.

 

Unfortunately, he ALSO saw Hamish, creeping back into the clinic on a collision course with the raving, unstable man's line of sight. He tried to motion his palm downwards at Hamish to get him to stop and take cover, but Hamish just stood and looked at him blankly. Too late he realized what John was trying to say. Mr. Chamberlain was startled by the additional person suddenly looming there. He screamed at Hamish, going on about how, no one would listen, and that he wouldn't let them hurt him. His hands curled spastically into fists and he reached one into his trouser pocket.

 

A weird sense of premonition swept over John, not unlike the certainty he used to feel right before a bomb raid. In his mind's eye, he almost saw the Swiss Army knife before the agitated man pulled it from his pocket and flicked it open to the largest blade.

 

He brandished it at John and Hamish and started making more demands for pills and anything to _make it all STOP._

 

_“_ Make it stop. Stop. Leave me ALONE! “ He rubbed wildly at the skin of his arm and swung the hand holding the knife around frantically.  “Give me the pills and I can sleep. I can't take anymore. NOW!!! It's trying to kill me! Please just give me the pills…please...” He whined and cried at them.

 

Hamish was terrified. He had no idea of what to do and honestly felt as though his legs were going to give out, right there. John was a few feet away, but it might have well have been miles. John was radiating confidence and doing his best to calm the hysterical patient, but even Hamish could tell that things were going downhill at an alarming rate.

The front door opened carefully and it became apparent that the police had arrived. An Armed Response Unit member walked slowly in, his hands raised and cautiously pointing to the ceiling. He made an obvious display of being empty-handed. He called out to Mr. Chamberlain that he was going to help him, he just needed him to put the knife down and stay where he was. No one would hurt him, he just needed to take a deep breath and…

 

Mr. Chamberlain listened for a brief moment,  took that deep breath, and then lunged at John with the sharp blade.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little more of the knife drama...

Hamish heard himself suck in a ragged breath and was vaguely aware of slumping onto the wall for support and sliding halfway down to the ground at the realization that the man slashed at John. 

 

John's face screwed up in concentration and he threw himself backwards away from the viciously wielded blade. The man stabbed wildly at the air where John had been. John carefully backed away a fraction while the attacker panted and tried to focus his blurred vision. 

 

The officer had come closer and spoke soothingly again. He told the patient he was safe. He just needed to put the knife on the ground and he would be just fine. John saw Mr. Chamberlain gearing for another attack. 

 

“Hamish,” John gently intoned, not taking his eyes off of the knife. “Why don't you give Mr. Chamberlain some space here?” John spoke directly to the patient. “He's going to go. He won't bother you. Keep your eyes on me. Go Hamish. Now.” John sing-songed the last few words. 

 

Hamish was still immobile against the wall and was now hyperventilating loudly.

 

“I-I can't move,” he stammered, with an edge of panic in his voice. 

 

John spared a quick, concerned look at Hamish and Hamish let out a faint, pitiful sob. 

 

That agitated Mr. Chamberlain and he started gesticulating wildly again and sweating profusely.  His hands started to shake significantly and John knew this could only get worse. 

 

The distressed man drew his knife arm back in horror movie style and started a huge, swinging arc towards John's body. 

 

John was ready. He let the knife come down,  knocked the arm wide and grabbed the man's wrist. He twisted it out and around and Mr. Chamberlain involuntarily dropped the blade in surprise and pain. 

 

The officer was there instantly, suddenly armed, sweeping the knife out of the patient's reach with his foot. Two more armed officers entered swiftly and provided backup. 

 

Mr. Chamberlain was taken with the officers for psychiatric evaluation and the  paramedics that had been waiting outside descended to make sure everyone was alright. 

 

Sarah and the two lab techs emerged from the glass windowed lab room cautiously. They had seen everything crouched from the window and had barricaded themselves in case the attacker had tried to gain access to the pharmacy. 

 

It was over. John hugged Sarah and looked at her questioningly. 

 

“You alright?”

 

She weakly nodded. “I'm fine. These things just seem to happen around you, don't they?” She smiled up at him. 

 

John warmly grinned back. “I can't even blame Sherlock for this one, though he'll probably pout that he missed the excitement. He loves knife fights. He supposedly learned from a performer at the Belarusian State Circus in Minsk. Says he loves the primal feel. Wanker.”

 

Hamish finally felt like he could peel himself up. He shucked the orange blanket that he found on his shoulders and looked around embarrassed. He had really made an ass of himself today. He was glad no one had gotten hurt because of it and he rubbed his eyes dejectedly as he thought about the poor showing he had made in front of John and everyone else. He heard John and Dr. Sawyer joking about Sherlock being pissed to miss the whole thing and shuddered. The two men just seemed seemed to thrive off of that sort of thing. Hamish decided he'd like to keep those sorts of things strictly to movie nights.

 

The investigation didn't take much longer after Mr. Chamberlain was taken away for evaluation. John was asked about his notes and impressions of the patient when he arrived and his professional opinions. That was about it. They had asked the two early patients to reschedule later on in the day. The whole ordeal was all said and done by 9:00. Patsy, one of the old-time lab techs, had a bottle of Laphroaig stashed in her locker (“Rheumatism, dearies!”) and they had a few shots apiece to settle their nerves. Deirdre was on Twitter almost immediately chronicling the excitement.

 

As a group, they decided they would open back up at 11:00 and continue on with the day. Hamish ran home to grab a quick shower and the afternoon proceeded quietly. Thankfully.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock gaped at Sarah when she came to the end of the story.

 

_Now that voice mail from John around 10:00 made sense. “Just wanted to check on you, Sherlock. Things were, um, a little crazy here earlier. I'll tell you about it later. Just a little wound up now and wanted to talk a bit and hear your voice. So, uh, take care of yourself. *sigh* Ok, right. Later, then_.”

 

Sherlock had texted back.

 

_Got your message earlier. Shower. Everything alright? SH_

 

_Fine. Having dinner out tonight 7ish. Will tell u about crazy day later. JHW_

 

“All of that was just a few hours ago,” Sherlock whispered. “Are you sure John is alright? No injuries he was trying to hide? Stitches? Bruises? You know he hates making a fuss about himself.”

 

Sherlock's voice had ramped up a notch and Sarah smiled indulgently at him.

 

“No injuries and yes, we are _all_ fine, thanks. Hamish seemed to be fatally embarrassed that he had gone over all wobbly and insisted that he take John to dinner tonight to make up for it. I think Hamish has a bit of a thing for John, actually. He's angling for a cozy dinner at somewhere called The Little Square in Mayfair. A bistro, I think, though he made a reservation. You heard of it?”

 

Sarah left that whole statement hanging to see what response it would elicit. She glanced at Sherlock covertly and caught him making the most petulant, horrified face possible for a grown man, yet one that was filing away information and still managed to hold a degree of worry.

 

_So that's how it is, Mr. Holmes?_

 

Sarah couldn't help the small snicker that snuck out.

 

Sherlock rose with a huff.

 

“No. John can hardly help the interest others might have in him - he HAS formidable charm and a certain appeal, after all. You all were fortunate he was here in such a situation as today, Doctor. I am gratified no harm came to anyone. I also thank you for your assistance in my own matter,” Sherlock finished vaguely.

 

Sarah cocked her head to the side thoughtfully and nodded. “I know you care about him. We all do too,” she added. “Perhaps you should do something about that.” Sarah held her breath and waited.

 

Sherlock did the unexpected. He reached out and grasped her forearms gently and bowed his head slightly and almost reverently. Momentarily stunned, Sarah simply watched him glide out of the kitchen.

 

“Which matter might that be, Sherlock?” she muttered to herself, after right herself a tad. “You stealing John's stuff or giving you inside information on your rival for Dr. Watson's more personal affection and a little push?”

 

Sarah smiled and made herself another cup of tea.

 

\------

 

Sherlock had begun to head down the hallway towards the exit and pivoted back towards the kitchen door. He realized it had been slightly ajar as he left. There was a lingering smell of a certain cologne.

 

_So. Listening at keyholes, hmm? You know I know then. Where will it go now?_

 

Sherlock strode out of the clinic, head held high and a cunning smirk on his lips. He stopped briefly to button his coat by a bench outside at the kerb. Even if someone had been looking directly at him, they probably would have missed the exchange between Sherlock and the homeless man perched on the seat. Sherlock walked on and the man unfolded the paper that had been covertly thrust into his pocket.

It was two £20 notes and a message.

 

_Keep the phone. If called, apologise for the missed appointment, “Mr. Lopez”. SH_

 

_\-----_

 

Hamish, as casually as he could, ambled into the kitchen after he had been listening at the slightly opened door while Sherlock and Sarah were discussing the day's events. He was admittedly puzzled at catching Sarah telling John's flatmate about his dinner plans for the evening and his intentions.

 

_Was there something going on between John and Sherlock? Sarah seemed to think there COULD be._

 

His stomach did a sick roll.

 

Sarah greeted Hamish with a wary smile.

 

“Dr. Sawyer, tell me more about Dr. Watson's flatmate. He seems almost unreal, you know. I know he's insanely smart and all that, but he's so intense and all Mr. Darcey and broody. How are they even friends?”

 

Sarah took a deep breath and motioned him to sit.

 

She proceeded to tell him about her harrowing disaster of a date and Sherlock's role in the safe conclusion; their crazy lifestyle, the succeeding string of girlfriends that Sherlock shooed away, and John's propensity to leap to attention at Sherlock's slightest whim.

 

Hamish looked pained.

 

“Is there, well, something between them then?” Hamish blurted out.

 

Sarah smiled again, this time a bit more speculative while still trying to be kindly.  

 

“They've been locked in a careful orbit around each other for years, I think. If something was going to happen, it would have by now. Either that or they are just _that_ stupid.”

 

Sarah looked pointedly at Hamish.

 

“Thanks, Sarah,” Hamish mumbled as he pushed his chair back to leave hastily. He was even more conflicted than before.

 

\-----

 

John had a moment before his next patient. He dropped heavily into his desk chair, breathed in a deep lungful of air, and rubbed his face.

 

Sarah popped her head around the door.

 

“You holding up alright, Captain?” She leaned against the frame and folded her arms.

 

“Sure, sure,” John eyes softened. I'm still more upset about my stethoscope, if I'm honest than all the other goings-on from today. What does that say about me really?”

 

“It says you are confident in your physical abilities and have quite the sentimental streak. C'mon, now. Are you _sure_ you LEFT it somewhere? You've had that thing forever and literally trained yourself to keep it at your fingertips. Did you dump the supply bag out completely? It's a rather large one, you know.”

 

John frowned at her and admitted he had just riffled through it randomly before. He carefully upended it onto the desk and fished his hand around on the bottom. Lo and behold, his hand emerged with the missing object.

 

John pounced on Sarah with a huge hug and draped it around his neck with a face splitting smile.

 

“Oh, ta, Sarah! I really thought I looked in there! I owe you, truly.”

 

Sarah mock saluted him and headed on her way out of the office. John stood and beamed for a moment that all had righted itself. He breathed in contentedly and for an instant, _swore_ he smelt a faint whiff of Sherlock.

 

He couldn't help closing his eyes and smiling.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock sat uncomfortably in his chair at Baker Street. He had a lot to consider before deciding his next move. He couldn't help the low level of dread that had been building in him since his conversation with Dr. Sawyer. Could he have missed his opportunity? The interloper was now a part of the balance and it was difficult to fully predict what he might do. The shadowy beast paced behind his heart menacingly and flexed its claws. He pulled out his mobile for a rare call.

 

\-----

 

Hamish’s shift was his short one for the week, so he had told John earlier that he would meet him at the restaurant tonight. He had some time to ponder what Sarah had told him.

_Could two people really be that blind? It was their own faults, really._

 

Hamish walked on towards the restaurant at a slower pace. He found an unoccupied bench along the sidewalk and got out his phone.

 

\-----

 

John pulled on his jacket, and bid the staff good night. He headed out towards the Tube station in deep study. His thoughts kept going back to the cryptic words Sarah left him with before he left the clinic.

 

“You _do_ care about him, don't you?” Sarah sternly addressed him as he had tried to tell her good night.

 

“Who? Hamish? Come off it, Sarah. You know it isn't like that,” he countered a bit defensively.

 

“No. Not Hamish. If you are going to do this, you need to stop mucking about and _do_ it. We are all getting tired of your bullshit.”

 

He regarded Sarah with a look of stupefaction as she spun on her heel and stalked away from him without another word.

 

_What. The. Hell?_

 

He was walking through the door of the restaurant when he got a text. He started to open it when the hostess greeted him and he asked for the direction to the bar. She pointed him the way and he glanced down to read the screen. It was from Hamish.

 

_So sorry to do this at the last min, but I had better sit this one out. Hoping you will understand why by the end of tonight. HW_

 

John stopped walking and looked up with puzzled expression. The bar was now in view and he could see Hamish sitting on the less populated side facing away from him. A gin and tonic sat beside him, half empty.

 

John approached him and put a hand on his shoulder in greeting and as a question to his presence.

 

The dark, ruffled-haired head turned in his direction, looked him slowly up and down and two words came out of his mouth in a low, resonant timbre that John could almost feel in his bones. The voice had the ability to cut right through him with scalpel-like efficiency and then lay him to waste effortlessly. It always had.

 

“Hello, Hamish.”

 

It was Sherlock.


	13. Chapter 13

It was still a few minutes before he was supposed to be at the restaurant and Hamish hadn't moved since he sent the text.

 

_ I really did like you, Dr. Watson. But is seems that you are spoken for already. He is the overpowering presence that seems to ghost behind your eyes whenever I try to get you closer. I owe this to you. You deserve it.  _

 

Hamish stood and nodded to himself with conviction. He headed home.

 

_ \----- _

 

“W-what are you doing here, Sherlock? Have you done something to Hamish? He just texted he wasn't coming. Did you say something to him?”

 

John felt indignation rising up in him on Hamish’s behalf. 

 

“Why, hello, Sherlock. My what a surprise, seeing you. Think I'll sit here with you and have a drink too,” Sherlock sniped at him churlishly. “Curious how your mind immediately cast me as the role of the villain and ill will towards your precious Hamish.”

 

John ignored the vitriol in Sherlock's words and plowed on, hands curling reflexively at his sides, ready for battle.

 

“How did you know I was going to be here? And how did you know he wasn't coming? Are you tapping my phone now? What the hell?” John countered.

 

“Calm yourself - I didn't know he wasn't really coming. Seems the do-gooder can't help himself at being noble. For what good  _ that _ will do.” Sherlock moodily slung back the remaining drink from his glass and toyed with it idly, avoiding John's stare.

 

“Alright,” John sighed heavily as he pulled out the chair beside Sherlock's. “Sorry. I shouldn't have jumped on you like that.”

 

John pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly as we was wont to do when confused or overwhelmed. 

 

“But the question remains, why are you here?”

 

Sherlock steadied himself and looked John squarely in the eyes. 

 

“I know what happened at the clinic today and I was concerned. About you. You shouldn't be that reckless without me, you know.”

 

John goggled at him warily. 

 

_ Stop hedging and TELL him. _

 

Well, more that that, perhaps. I've been thinking our past - our history. Especially about that night at Angelo's. I was ruthless and insensitive. I've recently realized how badly I feel about that. I wanted to apologise.” 

 

“You wanted to interrupt my night out to say you were sorry for something you did  _ years _ ago?” John looked at him like he was a complete nutter. 

 

“It's not just that. I'm doing this badly,” Sherlock manically tugged at his hair and tried to calm himself. 

 

“I was mistaken. All that time ago. But that is besides the point. I can see that you have gotten past your reluctance to embrace your attraction towards another man. It  _ is _ curious how much he resembles, erm, well. No matter…” Sherlock trailed off awkwardly.  

 

John only half heard him. 

 

“My attraction towards another man?” John felt incensed at the near accusation there. “To Hamish? You must be joking,” he blustered. “We are friends. He  _ is _ a quite fit and fun sort of bloke, I will grant you, but I  _ like  _ him. Enjoy his company. Not like  _ your  _ company. That is another thing entirely. You and I are totally different in that respect.

 

“You've never done  _ this _ before,” countered Sherlock, waving his arms about at the restaurant. “This is different than you going to the pub with Gavin and you know it. It's a  _ date _ .”

 

John winced at that. Sherlock was actually right. He had, if he was honest, been entertaining the possibility of allowing himself to view Hamish in a different light, seeing how he'd never be able to have that with Sher….

 

“Is this what you were doing that night at Angelo's?” Sherlock spoke so softly and almost shyly and it broke John from his introspection instantly.

 

“Yes, no...I don't know, what?” John stuttered, completely caught off guard. How did Sherlock DO that? Just reach into his soul and pull out the very things he wanted to keep from him. Alright then. Perhaps this was a long time coming.

 

_ Right. I'm just going to tell him. Tell him my thoughts back then. _

 

John plowed forward. 

 

“Right. You remember coming back to Baker Street that night? In the hallway, catching our breaths against the wall, looking at each other, and laughing our heads off? I had never felt so alive and drawn to a person before in my life. I didn't know what the hell to think. You were a  _ guy _ . I had  _ just _ met you. It scared the shit out of me. You had totally blown me off at Angelo's when I sort of wanted to see what would happen, if I sort of, well, TRIED. Poked a little. Well, not tried, but took a little step towards the cliff. I didn't dare after you had shut me down earlier, but at that moment? There by the stairs? God, I wanted to.”

 

Sherlock's eyes widened at that. Somewhere within his Mind Palace, he felt something shift. The slight haze that had always enveloped the room of the night at Angelo's suddenly cleared. He saw every expression and nuance as it was, for what it was. John  _ had _ been interested. He had flirted clumsily, not really knowing what he was doing, with a MAN. He saw himself regarding John cautiously and then let the lethal axe blade swing. “I'm flattered, but…” Damn his own stupidity. 

 

“Yes.” Sherlock dropped his head miserably and slowly drew in a shaky breath, as he came back to awareness. He raised it to meet John's gaze and tried again. “That night, I made two ridiculously regrettable mistakes. Ones that have haunted me since.” 

 

John shifted awkwardly in his seat. 

 

_ Shit _ . 

 

This was the last thing he wanted to hear. It was bad enough that Sherlock had offhandedly rejected him back then with his pathetic little, “I'm unattached, you're unattached,” ploy. It was going to be monumentally worse now in gloriously, deducted detail. John could hardly even look Sherlock in the face. 

 

“I regret telling you I was married to my work, that I couldn't be bothered. I completely dismissed what I felt at that moment as meaningless and inconsequential because it certainly was  _ far _ from that.” Sherlock sat back and looked everywhere except at the man sitting next to him.

 

John cautiously raised his head. He was honestly floored at his flatmate's words.

 

“What did you feel then?” John gingerly probed.

 

Sherlock seemed to be pulling himself together, and building up steam. “Attraction. A connection like nothing I had experienced before. Desire. Like you were there just for me. All in that moment. It was terrifying.”

 

John sat back gaping. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so flummoxed. He grappled at a seemingly random, swirling thought in the vortex that passed for rational reasoning in his brain.

 

“What was the second thing you regret then?” John blurted out. 

 

Sherlock paused. “Back at the flat, right before Angelo brought your cane back. I deeply regret not doing this... “

 

Sherlock leaned in, lifted John's chin with a soft hand under his jaw, and softly grazed his lips across John's.

 

And John felt absolutely nothing.

 

John pulled shakily away from Sherlock, and stared, horrified at his own reaction. 

 

_ He kissed you! This gorgeous, intensely infuriating enigma just kissed you and you turn into utter deadweight; vapor locked like a ruddy Victorian heroine!  _

 

Sherlock zeroed in on the look on John's face,  immediately flushed a deep red, and manically threaded his fingers through his hair. Looking thoroughly defeated for just an instant, he reluctantly lifted his face to John's, and took in a deep, stuttering breath. 

 

“John. My apologies. I had rather hoped that that might have been a bit more welcome. I hypothesised that if you could consider one man, then you might consider me. I won't trouble you further.”

 

Sherlock pushed the bar chair away from himself, pulled a £20 note from his wallet and set it under his glass. He curtly nodded at John and swept out of the restaurant with only a slight hitch in his gait. Anyone watching would have seen an attractive and fairly confident man heading out the door. John wasn't anyone. He didn't just see the beautifully angled face and aloof countenance. He observed the slight slump of slim shoulders and the broken bits of his exposed heart still trying to beat ineffectually in his chest. 

 

Sherlock pushed open the door and was gone. 

 

John, still somewhat immobilized, managed to raise a hand over the bar, and then smacked it down so hard, it shook all the drinks in the immediate area.

 

_ Damn it! What the FUCK did you just do, Watson??? Go fix this! Now!! _

 

John bolted around the tables and out the door after Sherlock.


	14. Chapter 14

John frantically scanned the street for any signs of a flapping Belstaff or a lanky stretch of leg boarding a taxi.

 

Nothing.

 

John cursed aloud in frustration and frankly scared a few passers-bys. He helplessly folded his arms over his head and sucked in a muffled whine.

 

That was it. He had ruined everything. Sherlock had put his cards on the table and John had essentially shrugged off the entire gesture. Made him doubt what he had seen in John to encourage his action. It hadn't been on purpose, of course, but by not responding, and well, the look of stupefaction he KNEW had been on his face after Sherlock kissed him, the genius took it to mean rejection. Rejection and the horrifying notion that he had been WRONG about something that he had deduced - such as John returning his interest. John didn't blame him at all. He had been a complete idiot, unable to face his feelings for the man and now, as a result, he had made the great Sherlock Holmes doubt his very own brain and stabbed him in the heart for the cherry on top.

 

A movement caught his eye across the street. A tall, familiar shadow stalked away from a newsagent's. The figure ripped open the small package gripped in both hands and was fumbling with a pack of matches.

 

_Sherlock._

 

John tore across the street, nearly got himself mown down by a bus and two taxis, their horns blaring angrily. Sherlock's head whipped up at the cacophony and spotted John barrelling towards him. The outright panic was written all over Sherlock's face, but John staunchly pressed on, closing in on him.

 

John reached Sherlock's side, batted the cigarettes out of his hands, and yanked him over to the opening of an alleyway immediately behind them. He dragged him inside the relative privacy of the brick-lined corridor and pushed the visibly agitated man against one of the walls.

 

“J-John,” Sherlock winced, as his back hit the bricks not entirely gently. “W-what are you _doing_ ? Let me be. PLEASE _._ You have let your feelings be known. I can respect that. _”_  

 

He locked eyes with his captor with a pitifully pleading glance.

 

John had never felt like a bigger jerk. He saw the hurt and the anguish permeating throughout Sherlock's entire body and rushed in for triage.

 

“I am SO, so sorry Sherlock,” he began, releasing one of his hands gripping Sherlock's shoulders frantically to rub his eyes in angry frustration. “You caught me so off balance, I couldn't even think.”

 

“First reactions tend to be the most accurate,” Sherlock muttered to John's feet.

 

John lifted the beautiful bowed head with his hand, just as Sherlock had done to him in the restaurant.

 

“They do, don't they?” John countered. “Just like killing a man threatening someone that person had just met? Dropping everything when they text, or jumping on a madman's back so that person could get to safety? All gut reactions, Sherlock. Don't you see, it's always been you. Always been you for me. I just wouldn't allow myself see it.”

 

John laughed sharply and cast his eyes up towards the sky, desperately trying to wrangle his thoughts. Did it matter? He was just winging this, saying any little thing he could to walk them both to the same conclusion. To get him to _see. To observe._

 

He loved Sherlock. He always had. It didn't matter if he was gay, or bi, or whatever - it was whatever people called themselves that simply loved each other.

 

Now he had a bit of safety line. He knew that Sherlock cared about him too.

 

John took Sherlock's face in both of his hands and met his watery verdigris eyes. “I think I just froze up in the restaurant  because I knew I had to explain this. _I_ had to be the one to bridge the gap, to stop acting like a blind, scared idiot. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I can say that now. Say that to you, and mean it so much. Please forgive everything it took to get me here. But I'm here now and I hope you can be too.”

 

John paused a moment and waited for some kind of response. Sherlock's head dipped a fraction down as if in benediction. John took that as affirmative, drew Sherlock's face down to his, and gently pressed their lips together.

 

He felt his toes catch fire.

 

His entire body blossomed and soared with heat. His fingers itched for a stronger purchase on the tweed coat and he grappled Sherlock closer. John felt him release a painfully held breath into his mouth and finally began to respond in John's arms.

 

“Jaaawn...” Sherlock breathed into his mouth. It was all Sherlock could seemingly manage as he clutched and grappled with a savagely tight grip. John maneuvered his own arms around the taut lengthy flanks, pushing him into the alley wall, his lips teasing Sherlock's open until he was finally inside, tasting him. He was warm, wet, and sweet with the tang of juniper from his drink at the bar. John sucked soft, little helpless moans of response from Sherlock’s now pliant mouth. Sherlock felt himself sinking irrevocably under the spell of John's intoxicating words and the deliciously hot response to the way John was making his body _feel._

 

Sherlock forcibly extricated himself from the kiss after a moment. “Y-you _love_ me?” He turned a confused and heartbreakingly intense stare to John. “How? _Why_? ” He insisted, somewhat breathlessly.

 

John fluttered his hands from Sherlock's shoulders, his arms, his chest, never really landing, but not stopping. He looked up at the sky again and back to Sherlock's flushed and longing face. He took both of his hands in his own, and met those desperately searching eyes again.

 

“I just do. You are the most important person in the world to me and what I feel about you?  God, it's taken me SO damn long to get past the whole, ‘I'm not gay’ thing. I'm not. Not really. I'm not gay, or bi, or any sort of certain category or label.   _It's. Just. You_ . I've found the person I want to be with forever that happens to be a man. Happens to be YOU. Beautiful, stunning, unbelievably brilliant, and madding YOU. It took meeting someone that looked so much like you, who was attentive, and so obviously attracted to me for me to actually _get_ that I wanted YOU so much. Physically and emotionally. I just needed that sense of hope - that you _could_ . That you could pay attention to me, be affectionate, and to even _want_ me. That was the part that I never could see happening. But in there. Tonight. You said you regretted not letting that moment happen that night in the hall. Or at Angelo's. That you wanted it too, but couldn't. I'm such a coward for just not doing it myself then. Lord knows I wanted to too.”

 

Sherlock ran his palm incredulously down John's cheek. His tremulous face split into a rapturous smile as he blinked his eyes rapidly.

 

“If I _could_ ? John, I've been yours from the very beginning. Even before I was aware of it. I always belittled the thought of a relationship with anyone. How it would interfere with the Work, how I had _no_ idea why humans want such a tenuous, fragile thing. But you. You became a _part_ of the Work. Part of my existence. My life twisted up inexorably in yours until we were _US_. That, I never foresaw. Never allowed myself to entertain even the possibility.”

 

Sherlock pulled John into a fierce embrace. He took his turn lifting his head towards the stars before meeting John's dark, colour-rimmed eyes.

 

“John, please believe me when I say that you are the only person I've ever even wanted to attempt to let into my life. You have always been different. Special. You accepted me as I am and not as the bizarre anomaly that others saw. I cannot begin to explain my feelings for you, but I assure you, they are very real and very physical as well.”

 

Sherlock dropped his head and let it rest heavily into John's shoulder. John held him tightly for a moment and then broke the embrace.

 

“Let's go home.” John reached for Sherlock's hand and Sherlock quietly slid his fingers into John's. They turned to look at each other, which morphed into the complete inability to tear their eyes away. They both realized at the same time that this was _allowed_ now. It was like having rationed little sips of water all your life in the desert and then suddenly coming upon an oasis overflowing with an endless supply to drink your fill.

 

They walked and walked, engrossed in each other and in the warmth of the link their hands made at their sides. Before they knew it, they had made it all the whole way home and stopped outside their flat door.

 

“John. What do we do now?” Sherlock softly questioned.

 

“We go in, love,” John answered simply. He took out his key, unlocked the door and held it open.  Sherlock followed a bit hesitantly.

 

\-----

 

The stairs passed mostly unnoticed under their feet. They both hung up coats and found themselves facing one another in the warm, familiar walls of the sitting room.

 

John stepped into Sherlock's body and put his hands gently on his waist.

 

“I have a thought. It has been quite the day for both of us - in more ways than I can even _begin_ to fathom.” He sent his eyebrows into his fringe with a chuckle at that. “I am unbelievably happy to finally start this “US” thing. I'm just so completely knackered and I know you must be too. Come sleep. If that's ok.”

 

“ ‘Go sleep’, you mean,” Sherlock shot a bewildered look at John.

 

John tilted his face up to touch his lips gently to Sherlock's. Sherlock leaned into the touch and responded with a slide of his hands into the short blonde strands of John's hair and a soft, rapturous moan into his mouth. They kissed just for the pleasure of feeling their bodies close and warm for a few languorous moments.

 

They pulled apart and John brought his hand up to stroke Sherlock's cheek.

 

“Let me try that again. Come sleep _with_ me. Just sleep, I mean. I feel like I really don't want to be without you all night. It really seems a bit pointless for us to march off to our separate rooms at this point,” he smiled almost painfully and ducked his head slightly.

 

Sherlock's eyes softened as he looked at John in hushed awe.

 

“We could go to my room. The bed is bigger.”

 

Silently, they prepared for bed. Quiet gazes still passed between them and little touches were had every few moments, as if they were reassuring themselves that the other was still there. Sherlock changed into pajama pants, forgoing a shirt and John simply shucked everything except for his pants. They got into bed and without preamble, Sherlock turned onto his left side, into the crook of John's right shoulder and rested his head there, breathing in the smell of John's hair and his warm skin. No more of the torture of burning for this man, a breath away and yet so hesitant to inhale. They both had been really. Sherlock purposely took in a slow, deep breath of John’s proximity and let out a long, contented sigh as he brought his arm up to rest on the firm chest, just below John's scar. Fingers met him there and John's hand cradled them over his heart.

 

John tucked his head down and touched his lips to Sherlock's forehead, murmuring a sleepy, “G'night, love”. He stroked his right hand across Sherlock's back and let it rest there as he drifted off.

 

Sherlock burrowed deeper into John's neck and closed his eyes. Sleep didn't come to him as quickly. He almost fought the heavy sensation threatening to engulf him for fear he might wake up, discover this was all a cruel dream, and John would be gone from his arms. He chided himself for such feeble imaginings. John was really here. Of his own volition. _It. Was. Real._  

 

Sleep finally won.

 

Neither man lifted a hand from the other for the rest of the night.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock awoke slowly to an unaccustomed sensation of weight. He opened his eyes to discover he was lying on his back with his arms filled with John. It was the most glorious feeling he had experienced since, well, last night when John actually said he  _ loved _ him and kissed him thoroughly to prove it. 

 

_ God, the feel and taste of him, in my arms, of being in his. I could have never even dared to think of such an eventuality. _

 

John's torso was stretched across his with an arm slung possessively over Sherlock's right shoulder, head on the taller man's chest, and the other arm tucked underneath. Sherlock's arms tightened reflexively around John's back and he slid a hand into his hair to gently to cradle his head. He breathed in John's warm, sleepy scent and felt his own morning erection pulse to increased attention almost immediately. He sighed softly into John's hair and shifted his hips minutely into the leg that John had draped over his groin. 

 

_ Oh, God...he is so warm and close. That feels so unbelievably good pressing into him; being engulfed and surrounded by him. How did I exist before without this? Slow down, now - he might not be on board with this just yet and I CANNOT ruin this through inexperience. _

 

John was having his own morning revelation. He opened his eyes to the feeling of a radiating heat on his chest and an embrace of long limbs encircling his torso and head. He closed his eyes again and pushed his own morning response gently into the slim hip he was resting against. 

 

_ Mmm. Look at me. I couldn't get any closer to him if I tried. I've never been a snuggler in my entire life and with just one night, I'm a completely different man. How did this happen so fast? Fuck, I'm such an idiot for pretending he didn't effect me all this time. Damn, he feels good to wake up with...Is that what I think it is against my leg? _

 

John raised his head curiously to Sherlock's. 

 

It was as if Sherlock had been waiting for John to come to full awareness. His eyes were open, but obviously restless with curbed impulse.

 

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock rumbled tentatively. 

 

“Good morning,” John responded just as gently as he raised his chin enough to let Sherlock tuck his own down and into a fleeting touch of lips. 

 

John sank back muzzily onto Sherlock's chest and waited. He could feel the unspoken questions emanating from Sherlock's great, noisy brain, even now, just emerging from sleep.

 

“John?” Sherlock started hesitantly. John smiled into the genius's skin. 

 

_ That didn't take long.  _

 

“Yes, love?” John replied warmly, taking the opportunity to trail a delicate line of kisses on the skin beneath his mouth that he could reach.

 

Sherlock gasped softly at the contact. He took a somewhat ragged breath in and tried again. 

 

“How did we get here?” 

 

“Well, I normally just sleep like the dead on my back, but I guess with you being right here, I couldn't help myself but get closer,” John murmured into Sherlock's chest as he continued his lazy exploration. His tongue grazed a nipple lightly and Sherlock arched up into him with an almost pained groan.

 

“I meant, HERE. In my bed. Together.” Sherlock was having a very difficult time concentrating on this line of thought with John's mouth on him, igniting little pools of fiery need wherever he touched. 

 

_ God, I want him so badly, but he has to know that he doesn't have to do this. This doesn't have to be physical unless he wants it to be. _

 

John lifted his head searchingly and waited for Sherlock to look him in the eye. He had closed them tightly and turned his head slightly away from John. Feeling John's gaze on him, Sherlock reluctantly opened them.

 

“Sherlock,” John started patiently. He bent his arm and propped his head in his palm as he slid his other hand up to stroke Sherlock's cheek. 

 

“We got here because we were finally honest with each other and ourselves (though John felt that was more of his issue than Sherlock's) about what we meant to each other and what we wanted. I couldn't keep my hands off of you even in my sleep,” John chuckled softly. “That says something, doesn't it?”  He lifted his hand higher to brush an errant curl from Sherlock's face and beamed at him. 

 

Sherlock bashfully, but still with a hint of worry, met the smile with a soft one of his own. 

 

“I just want to make it clear that you don't HAVE to do any of this, not if you don't want to,” he hedged. “It’s not an expectation or absolute. Besides, I'm not exactly the most experienced person in that respect.” 

 

Sherlock dropped his eyes and held his breath. 

 

John paused a moment to silence a flash of frustration. “You still don't think I really want you physically? When you've got me stretched all over you, unable to stop touching you and hard as Chinese algebra?” John rocked his pelvis into Sherlock's hip to punctuate the statement. He breathed in again to calm himself. “I want this. I didn't know how much until last night. ”

 

“I get it though. I do,” John continued.”I can understand your hesitancy. It does seem rather a 180, doesn't it? John Watson, forever denying his feelings, sexual or not, towards Sherlock Holmes. That was me being an idiot. When I said I loved you, I meant the whole deal, Sherlock. Body and soul. That gorgeous brain and the amazing transport in which it resides.”

 

John lowered his mouth to plant a slow, teasingly sucking kiss to the side of Sherlock's neck. 

 

“Ohhhh…” Sherlock moaned, unable to keep his hands from gripping John's shoulders like talons.

 

John trailed that wondrous mouth up to Sherlock's jaw and ducked behind his ear to nip softly at the sensitive skin there. Sherlock to his embarrassment, groaned loudly and bucked his hips up in search of more friction from John's leg that was no longer there. 

 

He opened his eyes in confusion to see John hovering over him, caging his body without touching it. 

 

“Now, how about this. I'm going to the loo to have a slash and brush my teeth so I don't scare you away forever. You come do the same after and then we will continue this if that is what you want. This is new to both of us, but I really DO want to show you what you do to me. What you have  _ always _ done to me, if I'm honest. Now I think I understand my own ulterior motive for why I always had them test us every time we had to go to A & E for some mishap.” 

 

John chuckled to himself, smiled and lifted himself up and off to the loo. Sherlock shuddered involuntarily in his wake and let his eyes follow John's delectable pants-covered arse out the door. 

 

_ John WANTS me. He really does. Oh, please do hurry. Hurry.  _

 

John brushed his teeth and used the toilet quicker that he would have thought possible, considering he was still half hard. 

 

_ Breathe now. Slow down - he's never done anything like this before. What the fuck am I saying? I'VE never done this before! Will I be be able to? _

 

_ “ _ Sod it. You didn't have any trouble just a few minutes ago,” he sternly informed his reflection in the mirror, leaning in, shaking a finger at it.

 

He straightened and considered. With that, John Watson stopped caring about the fact that he was about to get very intimate with his best friend. He wouldn't wait any longer. He opened the door into the bedroom and strode in purposely.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooo....let the sexy times begin!!!!! Mature, but not QUITE Explicit. (Oral sex/frottage)
> 
> This is a rather massive hulk of a chapter, folks. I couldn't help it.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed waiting and fretting. He cautiously lifted his eyes to John's just to see if in the span of five minutes, John had changed his mind.

 

John leaned down and kissed the shell of Sherlock's ear.

 

“Your turn.”

 

He crawled back into the warm bed, pulled up the sheets, and cradled his head in his hands on the pillow.

 

Sherlock darted in and shut the door. He tended to his ablutions and fussed with the tight band of his pajama bottoms for a moment. He had no need for a pep talk in the mirror.

 

John was still lounging comfortably under the sheets when he returned. Sherlock knelt carefully, a knee at a time on the bed and leaned forward as John sat up to meet him.

 

Their mouths slid together softly. Almost delicately. Arms entwined as they pushed more firmly into each other after those first few moments of blissful initial contact. Sherlock's breath hitched at the warm introduction of John's tongue as it swept across the seam of his lips, gently requesting further access.

 

John's mouth was unbelievably soft, warm, and so, so good at this, Sherlock could hardly contain his exponentially expanding impulses; they were taking over his brain’s ability to catalog and function logically. He gave up trying deduce John's movements, simply groaned louder, nipped John's lower lip, and sucked it between both of his own.

 

That earned him a surprised gasp from John that transmitted straight to Sherlock's groin like pure sodium being introduced to a beaker of water - excruciatingly volatile and intense.

 

Sherlock, unable to sit still, threw his leg over John's, straddled his hips, and pushed into John's chest firmly. The momentum thrust the two of them against the headboard of the bed and the surge of the sudden impact took both of their breaths away for a brief, frozen crystalline moment in time. Sherlock let out an approving “ _Yessss, John…”_  involuntarily rocking his entire body into the man beneath him. Sherlock's obvious enthusiasm elicited a wicked chuckle from John.  

 

“Mmmm. I like you like this,” John murmured  into his mouth. “You alright?”

 

Sherlock nodded emphatically.

 

_Oh, John, more. More..._

 

Hands that were already clutched around Sherlock's back, wandered quite purposely to the lush arse that was pushed into his lap. John grabbed a handful through the thin pajama bottoms and _pulled_.

 

John was unprepared for the ramifications of that shift in motion and tipped his head back in startled sensation. They both groaned mightily as two enshrouded erections met briefly and slid across the other, scalding hot in intensity.

 

“John..John...ohhhh. I can feel that _everywhere_ …” Sherlock crooned and repeated the motion himself.

 

John couldn't stop the “Ahhhhh, fuck, yeah...” that escaped gutturally.  

 

Sherlock recovered first and took the advantage of John's exposed neck. He latched onto the sensitive skin and began to kiss and suckle and none-too-gently graze his teeth down into the corded musculature of John's trapezius. John’s eyes fluttered shut and his head lolled against the headboard.

 

“Sherlock, oh, god _...”_ slipped from his slack mouth as his fingers curled.

 

Sherlock's eyes widened at the sound of his name sliding off of John's lips in apparent pleasure.

 

“I rather like _you_ like this,” he huskily returned, easing his hands down John's chest to caress the skin of his pectorals, one smooth, the other rough from scar tissue. “I love the sounds you make when I touch you. _I_ made you make them. _Me.”_ Pride coursed through Sherlock's body triumphantly and that awakened inner beast surged forward hungrily.

 

He pressed their mouths together again ruthlessly and with his long bodied weight behind it. John thrust his hands into Sherlock's curls, closed his fingers around a fistful and tugged at them reflexively.

 

“Ohhh, G-god yes, YES, YES, John! Oh please, please, _please_ do that again, yes...” Sherlock all but whimpered. His body locked and his eyes clamped shut and for a brief moment, John stuttered to a halt, half  thinking they both might have climaxed from that incredible accident.

 

John released the handful and tried another, tugging a bit experimentally.

 

“Uunnhhh!!!” Sherlock shuddered and mewled helplessly, totally overwhelmed by the sharp firing of the neuroreceptors in his scalp.  

 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John softly bit into an earlobe that dangled temptingly right by his lips. “Lord help me, I wanted to do this slowly; take our time, be considerate. But you are are _so_ fucking hot right now, so damn sensitive and responsive, I can hardly stop myself from trying to make you come right in your pants right fucking _now_ . Damn, I want to make you beg for it, plead with me, to _please, please_ \-  for the love of GOD, _touch me already…”_ John stopped, panting laboriously.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and drunkenly focused on John's perilously darkened pupils. He slowly let his mouth furl into an evil smirk, dangerously akin to the Grinch after he had stolen the last can of Who Hash.

 

“Oh, _try_ me, Doctor,” he cooed, ready to play this game to lose.

 

It was Captain Watson that actually answered the challenge.

 

Within barely three seconds, Sherlock found himself suddenly on his back, arms over his head, wrists manacled by one of John's strong hands. John loomed over him menacingly, still wrapped in the bedsheet.

 

“Keep your arms right there and don't move them,” John growled in his ear.

 

Sherlock's heart raced frantically. He may have whined a bit plaintively before he could cover his eager expression.

 

_Oh, yes, God yes, John. I swear I want you to touch me already_ _please just do it now, I need you to…_

 

Outwardly, Sherlock leveled a calm looking, undaunted stare back at the man resting on his heels above him.

 

John wasn't fooled for an instant, but he was enjoying this little game too much already to abandon it just yet. With Sherlock self-governing his own arms, John leaned closer, hovered his mouth whisper-close to those finely wrought cheekbones.

 

He dragged the tip of his tongue across them, then nipped the jaw, and dove underneath to taste the thin, fair skin at the apex of that long, elegant throat.

 

Sherlock tipped his head back gracefully, pretending he was indifferent to the whole situation.

 

John nodded mutely and continued downward, stopping briefly to suck what he hoped would be a fine example of a territorial mark on that exquisite neck. Sherlock barely stopped himself from bucking up into John and moaning his approval.

 

John wandered down until he circled and teased a rosy and very interested nipple. Sherlock couldn't hold back when John sucked it carefully between his teeth and flicked it mercilessly with his tongue. He squirmed and pushed his mouth into an almost white line with effort to stay silent.

 

John released the tender flesh and kissed it better after the rather rough treatment. “Mmmm, go ahead, sweetheart. Just let it go - I want to hear you; want to hear how I'm making you come apart, that you want more so damn badly and that it feels sooo fucking good…”  

 

John brought his mouth back up to Sherlock's and crushed them together fervently.

 

Sherlock cried out this time shamelessly and loud enough to elicit comment from Mrs. Hudson later. He flung his now free-range arms across the backs of John's shoulder blades and grappled him closer.

 

_Sweetheart...he called me sweetheart..._

 

Feverishly, he slid his hands down to push the bedsheet out of the way of the tempting swell of John's arse.

 

Sherlock was stupefied to find he was met with bare skin.

 

_He took his pants off while he was waiting for me. He's been under here the whole time naked and I didn't know. How did I not know?_

 

Sherlock pulled his mouth from John's and glared accusingly at him, trying to get his breath back.

 

Using the leverage in his legs and his hands on John's arse, Sherlock managed to switch their positions so now he was the one pressing down on John, nothing between them except for the flimsy material of his pajamas and the hardness of both of their now aching erections.

 

John keened long and low as Sherlock rubbed a circle onto his exposed cock with his flat stomach. Sherlock peeled back, eager to see and touch for himself.

 

John was magnificent. Thick in girth and hard and jutting upwards, curved towards his stomach. As Sherlock stared in naked lustful admiration, an opaque drop of precome oozed from the head and Sherlock unconsciously licked his lips and shivered. He couldn't help but say that first thought aloud.

 

“John, you are mouth-wateringly exquisite,” Sherlock breathed reverently. “Please. ”His voice cracks slightly. “Let me taste you, I want the feel of you between my lips and in my mouth, oh, John, I want to so badly...”

 

John cut off the plea before Sherlock could really get going.

 

“Sherlock, yes, _God_ yes. Holy shit, do it... Just, go slow. Whatever you want. Everything we've done so far has driven me crazy, you know. Because it's you. I'm getting close just thinking about it now…”

 

Sherlock was nearly vibrating in excitement. He kissed John intensely for a moment and then swirled all his fingers down his torso languidly.

 

_Oh, God, yes._

 

Sherlock's hands stopped and sought out everywhere they could on their journey downward, touching and assessing response and cataloguing all that precious John information that he could with his now hormone riddled mind. He repeated it all with his mouth, working his way down past John's bellybutton, past the crease of his leg, which incidentally made John moan shockingly hard, and down the inside of his thigh.

 

Sherlock ran his nails up the inside opposite leg right up to the testicles and John's skin broke out into a battalion of gooseflesh.

 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock...huunnhhh... that's good…yes...” John babbled haltingly.

 

Sherlock smiled and watched John writhe as he encircled the rapidly tightening bollocks in turn and tugged gently.

 

John had absolutely no objections when Sherlock tried the same area with his mouth. A hand to John's stomach soothed him enough to continue, though John breathing was becoming very erratic.

 

Sherlock could hardly contain himself when he circled one last time and then, without warning, painted a wide, wet stripe up John's shaft with the flat of his tongue, twirling at the tip, and sucking it gently before popping his mouth off.

 

John nearly lost it right there.

 

“Christ! Sherlock, _Sherlock..._ fucking hell, please _please don't stop_ , please… _fuckfuckfuck..._ ” John went on, incoherent after that.

 

“John! Your language,” Sherlock chided with a pleased smirk.

 

John moaned his contrition as Sherlock leaned down to lick him from root to tip again, caught the head at the last moment, sucked him into his mouth, and let him slide out again. He leaned back and stroked the entire shaft with his hand a few times, watching John arch and groan as he added a little flourish at the end with a twist of his wrist that John seemed unable to get enough of.  

 

Sherlock was euphoric - John was just as delicious as he looked and he moaned so beautifully under his novice mouth and hands. He realized belatedly how hard and desperate John's responses were making his own cock and he pushed the heel of his hand into it for a little relief and adjustment in his pajamas that were now a bit wet and stuck to him.

 

Sherlock was unprepared for the power of his own reaction and very nearly howled at the sensation.

 

John's eyes flew open, mostly in fear that something he'd done that had hurt Sherlock to make him caterwaul like that. He locked first on his face, where he saw his lover with rolled back eyes and half open mouth twitching slightly.  He quickly scanned down the body to Sherlock's pelvis, where his hand was still planted firmly.

 

John ceased to breathe. His mind went staggeringly blank and with an inhuman grunt, he tried to haul Sherlock up on top of him and lunged for his mouth.

 

“Sherlock, holy _fuck_ , get up here right _NOW_ and kiss me! Jesus, that noise was abso-fucking-lutely pornographic….Now, damn you!!”

 

Sherlock scrambled up as well as he could, tangling his legs in his pajamas on the way. John pulled his face roughly in, teeth clashing slightly, and Sherlock felt utterly consumed by John.

 

Sudden peripheral awareness flooded his overtaxed senses. John was, in an uncoordinated fashion, trying to peel the rogue bottoms and from his body. The sound of ripping fabric filled the air and finally, Sherlock was divested of the vexing clothes and John's hands were pressing harshly against his hips and groping his bare arse.

 

John, in the same maneuver Sherlock had enlisted earlier, flipped their bodies over and ground himself onto Sherlock almost through the bed. Both men groaned their approval desperately.

 

John tore himself away and stuck his left palm into the path of Sherlock’s ridiculously kiss-swollen lips.

 

“Lick,” he commanded Sherlock darkly, barely blue eyes meeting barely blue-green ones.

 

Without hesitation, Sherlock compiled and laved the proffered hand with his tongue. John shifted his weight to up to his knees so he was kneeling between those long, sinewy legs.

 

With the slicked palm, John grasped both of their shafts tightly together and stroked them down.

 

The silky glide as the two cocks pushed and pulled against each other was indescribable. Unbearable. John was certain he was going to black out when he came. He blearily looked down to watch the gorgeous man beneath him lose his sanity too.

 

“ _Jaaawwwn!_  Oh, please please, ahhh, now… so close… _so_ close… _please_ please fucking _NOW_...J-John...ohhHHH... ”

 

That single word - _“Fuck”_. One that rarely fell from the detective's mouth, followed by his own name, did it for irrevocably for John. He arched and every muscle in his body tightened. He hastily wet his other hand and pumped the two of them with both hands as Sherlock raised to meet him with an uncoordinated thrust of his hips.

 

“ _Sherlock!!!! Uunnnggg!!!_ Oh, fucking hell, yes, _YES_!!!!” John’s cock went completely rigid and his eyes screwed shut as he convulsed wildly and pulsed ribbon after ribbon of hot release onto Sherlock's stomach.

 

Sherlock was transfixed with John's face contorted in tortured orgasm.

 

“Yes, John, oh, my god _Yes, yes yes YES…_

 

Fueled by John's climax, he teetered at the very peak and then crashed over the other side with a piercing bellow.

 

_“JooooohhhnnnNNN!!!!!!”_

 

Sherlock curled up towards John's body as he stroked him through it and Sherlock came violently all over his own belly and John's now weakly twitching cock, still clutched in his relaxing grasp.

 

John collapsed with a whoosh of breath onto Sherlock's chest and long arms wrapped around him surprisingly tightly. Sherlock brushed his cheeks and forehead with kisses and tried to slow his own heartbeat down to a gallop.  

 

“John….that was beyond amazing... ohh, God, yes…” Sherlock panted, snuggling him closer.

 

John lifted his head reluctantly and tended to one last detail. He pulled Sherlock's ruined pajamas to them and cleaned them both off as well as he could in his feeble state.

 

He flopped back down behind Sherlock, spooned his body around the longer, lankier one. He fumbled and yanked the blanket over them and pulled him in tight into his arms.

 

“That my line, you know. S'ok. I’ve passed out happily so you can have it…” John trailed off weakly. He lifted ducked his chin and kissed Sherlock’s shoulder tenderly.

 

“Rest, baby,” he murmured into Sherlock's skin and leaned into him. “Just for a little while.”

 

“John?” Sherlock called softly to him, almost beneath the veil of sleep.

 

“I love you too.”


	17. Chapter 17

John opened his eyes to dark curls. He was still clutching Sherlock tightly from behind, his chest flush with that long, sinuous back, legs tangled and slotted together. 

 

He sighed deeply and more contentedly than he had in a long time and drifted back into sleep. 

 

\-----

 

When John awoke again, he was alone in Sherlock's bed a bit past 11:00. He sat up, slightly panicked for a moment until he heard the soft (and not so soft) murmurs coming from the sitting room. The not so soft voice was Sherlock's. 

 

“Don't be ridiculous. That is  _ not _ why I was asking for the information, Mycroft,” he heard Sherlock hiss. 

 

“Now, now, brother mine. What  _ else _ could I infer from your request BUT that? That  _ is _ rather your modus operandi, as you are undoubtedly aware,” Mycroft crooned back insincerely. 

 

John could feel their glares from there in the bedroom.

 

He felt the need to intercede, but looking around, had no recollection of where his clothes had ended up. He grabbed Sherlock's dark blue dressing gown, pushed up the massively long sleeves, belted it as high as he could so he wouldn't trip and marched out the door. 

 

Sherlock and Mycroft were indeed having a stare off - Sherlock slumped in his own chair petulantly and Mycroft stiff and unforgiving in John's. 

 

Having taken in the chill to the room, John detoured directly to the kitchen and nodded a clipped “‘Morning” to Mycroft as he ducked in. 

 

“Tea, anyone?” he called, setting the kettle to boil. 

 

He chanced a look out to Sherlock and found those mesmerizing eyes locked on him. He smiled gently at the mussed curls and the oh, yes, nipped bruises blossoming at that decadent neck. Sherlock's cheeks heated prettily and he tried batten down a demure smirk without his brother remarking on it. 

 

He should have known better.

 

“I see some manner of congratulations are in order, Dr. Watson. It would seem Sherlock has managed to dissuade yet another one of your potential romantic partners without resorting to more drastic measures. Curiously enough, he himself has become the victor. On his own merit. Wonders never cease.”

 

Mycroft flicked a bit of imaginary fluff from the crease of his trousers and looked smug.

 

“I just wanted to know where he was last night and when he would be departing our verdant shores, not to necessarily hurry the process along,  _ Mycroft,”  _ Sherlock ground out between clenched jaws. 

 

John couldn’t help but laugh at the exchange. He brought the three mugs of tea out and fixed Sherlock with a sweet smile, ignoring Mycroft pointedly.

 

“He didn't stand a chance, you know,” John placed the tea down by Sherlock's side and leaned in to kiss the top of his head. “He wasn't you.”

 

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably and rose from the chair. 

 

“Gentlemen, I will leave you to your, well, whatever it is that you are getting on with. I bid you both good day.”

 

He neatly put the curl of the umbrella’s handle over his arm and started towards the door. He paused as he reached for the doorknob and turned. 

 

“You might consider informing Mummy of the change in your relationship status, “ Mycroft mused with deceptively dulcet tones, pointedly eyeing Sherlock's robe on John's smaller frame. “You know how she is such a fan of Dr. Watson's blog.”

 

Mycroft closed the door behind him softly. 

 

John sunk down on the arm of Sherlock’s chair and ran his free hand through Sherlock's hair soothingly.

 

“Well.  _ That _ wasn't mortifying, was it?” He took the first sip of his tea as blithely as he could muster.

 

Sherlock leaned into John's hand with a deep sigh. 

 

“What the devil was he doing here  _ anyway _ ?” John questioned, “this morning of all mornings especially.”

 

“That might have been my doing, I fear,” Sherlock shrugged resignedly. “I may have, in a fit of bad judgement, asked for his assistance in acquiring some, ahem, minor details on a particular person.”

 

John put his tea down and used his finger to lift Sherlock's hang-dog head. He was actually blushing.

 

“Let's have it, love.” John sternly prompted.

 

“I  _ may _ have asked Mycroft to inquire about Mr. Waugh’s progress in his training and probable time of completion and assignment.“

 

John interrupted. 

 

“What? How did you know about that? I never said anything about…”

 

“Really, John? An American nurse, working in the British health system. Why? Here for a purpose. Almost a Quixotic-like drive of good will and honor indicates a desire to help the less fortunate. He's already in the health field, so what would such a person view as the next step? Foreign service. Bart's offers a step through program for foreign aid workers, therefore he must be fulfilling a requirement before he is aptly qualified, ergo, he is biding his time, working in the clinical setting until he completes said requirement. According to my tiresome brother, he has about a month's worth of training left. The most likely area he might be assigned to would be Western or Central Africa, where his proficiency in French might be of assistance.”

 

John, nodded stoically, still waiting.

 

“Mycroft stupidly assumed that since I was asking, I must have had the ulterior motive of the hastening of his removal.”

 

Sherlock took a quick glance up at John, trying to gauge his reaction. 

 

“I swear to you, John, I might have considered that, but I knew that you would not take too kindly to it. I'm not sure how I know that, but I heeded it for your sake. It was  _ just _ for the information.”

 

John could see Sherlock shifting uncomfortably and twisting his hands across his clothing fitfully. 

 

_ He considered my feelings and altered his behaviour. My, god. Have I broken his brain already? _

 

John felt his heart swelling with warmth. He reached over and wrapped Sherlock close with both arms. 

 

“Oh, Sherlock, you  _ do _ know me. I'm looking so forward to expanding on all that. It makes me very happy to hear that you didn't try to forcibly deport an innocent party for your own gain. Thank you.”

 

John brushed a slow but firm kiss to the detective's lips.

 

“Now what was it you told Mycroft? That you just want to know where he was? What was that about?”

 

Sherlock blanched slightly. 

 

“I, um, wanted to know how close he was to the restaurant. How much time I had with you.”

 

Sherlock smiled hopefully up at John. He  _ really  _ didn't want to have to go into the how and why he had deducted that Hamish  _ might _ do the chivalrous thing and bow out, thus allowing Sherlock to say his piece with John that evening without any interference.

 

Mycroft had reported that the subject had sat on a bench outside the restaurant for about 30 minutes before leaving in the opposite direction. Sherlock had been hugely relieved, seeing how he had been nursing his drink for the past 45 minutes at the bar. John arrived not 10 minutes after that. All of those potential paths - never crossing. Just the ones that mattered.

 

John pulled back his head and gazed into Sherlock's face. 

 

He smiled and got up, heading towards the kitchen. 

 

“This calls for a proper fry-up, I think. And you will  _ eat _ it mister,” John teased. “I’m off at the clinic today and I see no reason why we should let our energy stores run down.”  He chuckled to himself and went to see what actual food might be in the fridge. 

 

Sherlock blew out the breath that he had been holding. 

 

Crisis averted. 


	18. Chapter 18

John sent two texts that afternoon. One to Hamish and one to Sarah.

 

_Hamish- I understand now. Thanks. Truly. Sherlock would thank you too, but he'll never say so. See u tomorrow at work. JHW_

 

_Dr. Sawyer. No more bullshit.  JHW_

 

_\-----_

 

A mysterious courier brought two packages to the clinic the next afternoon. The two recipients exchanged puzzled expressions and proceeded to open the boxes. Carefully.

 

Sarah reached in her box and pulled out a small black velvet jeweler’s bag with gold Chinese characters imprinted on it. A note was pinned to it.  

 

_No great historical significance is connected to this one. Your assistance was beyond measure. SH_

 

Inside was a beautifully carved jade hair clip. Sarah flushed slightly as she let her fingers trace over the intricate curls and filigree of the piece. Her insides warmed as she reread the message.

 

_About damn time._

 

Hamish found a note written in French sitting on top of the fine tissue paper that lined his box.

 

_“The art of medicine consists in amusing the patient while nature cures the disease.” - Voltaire_

 

_Be a force of nature. Your honor and nobility will do you credit. SH_

 

Inside was a small stainless steel medic’s case packed with instruments and supplies with his initials engraved on the outside.

 

Hamish stared at it in his hands.

 

_How did he know all of this? Was this actually a thank you? For John??_

 

Hamish smiled to himself and stood a little taller. Less than a month to go and he could put everything to good use. He felt an odd sense of pride that he had played a part in John and Sherlock's story, though a little melancholy for his own sake. Dr. Watson would have been a fine catch.

 

He would definitely have to remember to thank that nice doctor at Bart's that helped him get into the program before he left for his eventual assignment.

 

_What was his name? Mike, um, something. Stamford. Yes. That was it. Must send him a card soon. So many things to do..._

 

\------

 

John opened the door to the flat and was met with a contemplative Sherlock resting on the sofa, hands together and tucked just under his chin. He regarded him affectionately as he made a space for himself with Sherlock's head in his lap.

 

“Hey, where's my box?” he teasingly prodded Sherlock's shoulder. “Those two both got presents that I _know_ were from you - that courier got into one of Mycroft's black cars when he left. Neither one of them would let me see what was in the boxes.”

 

Sherlock raised a single eyebrow at him.

 

_He observed that. Very good, John._

 

“Am I not present enough, John? “ he chided with a smirk.

 

Quicker than he thought was possible, John leaned over and managed to haul Sherlock up into his arms.

 

“That you are, love. More than you know.” John let Sherlock rest against his chest and ran his fingers through the tousled curls.

 

Sherlock smiled slyly up at John.

 

“You know I am a genius, John. I know quite a bit.”

 

John lifted Sherlock's chin and kissed him softly.

 

“I'm counting on it, love.”

 

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had such a grand time tinkering with this tale - it went from a one shot to a multi-chapter Not So One Shot deceptively quickly. Thanks, TCEW!
> 
> Any comments, thoughts, constructive critiques or general good cheer and discourse I fully welcome! Come chat!
> 
> This is my third foray into the delightful Johnlock authorship, so my feet are still just getting damp. Believe me - I want to get soaked to the bone. Till next time, lovies! ;)
> 
> NdP


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